


The Unclean

by TheIttyBitty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abused Castiel (Supernatural), Alternate Universe, Artist Anna Milton, Baking, Castiel (Supernatural) Has a Cat, Castiel is a Sweetheart, Cats, Comfort, Comfort Food, Cooking, Cults, Demisexual Castiel (Supernatural), Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Food, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gay Dean Winchester, Gentle Dean, Ghost Gabriel, Healing, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Pastries, Reading, Reading Aloud, Roommates, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Castiel, Witch Castiel, Witch Dean, Witch Dean Winchester, Witchcraft, Witches, a loving home, castiel gets a cat, castiel learns to bake, castiel learns witchcraft, detailed cooking, excessive use of pastries as a coping mechanism, learning to bake, learning witchcraft, pregnant anna, safe enviroment, slow healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-11-04 08:54:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10987569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIttyBitty/pseuds/TheIttyBitty
Summary: Dean should know by now to expect the worst when his brother calls him in the middle of the night with words like,we have a situationon his tongue. Still, he's more than a little surprised when Sam asks him to take in a young man recently rescued from a cult.Castiel - malnourished, abused, and afraid - might be more than Dean can handle, but someone's got to do it. Dean searches and finds a bright, loving man buried under those years of abuse, and he'll do just about anything to help Castiel feel whole again.





	1. Pineapple Lemonade

**Author's Note:**

> So this story has been sort of simmering in me for a long time. I'm not exactly sure why, but it has lodged itself in my brain and refuses to leave. So here we go, a story about a boy rescued from a cult.  
> This story will contain things such as:  
> \- a long, slow healing process on Castiel's part.  
> \- patient, caring Dean  
> \- good neighbors Charlie and Gilda  
> \- many pastries  
> \- a scared boy coming into a loving, nurturing environment and getting the help he needs. 
> 
> There will undoubtedly be some angst, but this is, at it's core, a soft and gentle story about healing and love. There will be hugs, there will be cuddles. There will be much reading aloud, bonding, and forming lasting friendships. I hope you like it.  
> I will be updating on Wednesdays.
> 
>  
> 
>  **WARNINGS:**  
>  \- Castiel has been sexually abused in the past. I didn't mark this story as non-con because it's in the past and it's never delved into explicitly, but it did happen and it may come up again. I'll put warnings on any chapters that go into it.  
> \- Castiel has been physically abused. There are some descriptions of his abuse. There are also some descriptions of his wounds.  
> \- Castiel has a lot of emotional damage, and behaves accordingly.

 

Dean Winchester should be used to weird phone calls at all hours of the day and night by now, he really should. It's what you get when you own your own business on one hand and have a brother who's the town sheriff on the other.

Still though, he's not expecting the call from the Hearth Ridge Police Department at three o' clock in the morning.

Can anyone really blame him for reacting badly?

“What?” He snaps into his phone. He hopes he's holding it the right way, having blindly grabbed it from the nightstand, still half asleep. Hell, he'll be glad if he even managed to answer it.

“Dean? Are you awake?” Sam's voice miraculously comes from the speaker, confirming that Dean did manage to answer the phone after all.

“Am now.”

“Well,” Sam sighs, “We have kind of a situation.”

Dean blinks, rolls onto his back, and sits up. There's nothing like his brother saying the words _we have a situation_ to wake him up. “What's up?”

“You know the Church of Avoth, right?”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face and squints around his room, trying to think. “They worship some demon, right?”

Dean can almost hear Sam roll his eyes, “Yeah, Dean, they worship _Avoth_.

“Yeah, I see some of them around. Always wearing robes. A little odd, but they seem harmless.”

On the other end of the phone, Sam scoffs. “Yeah, that's what we thought too. Not so much, turns out.”

“What happened?” Dean asks, dread curdling in his stomach.

“We got an anonymous tip saying that they were practicing human sacrifices. It was right.”

Dean shakes his head. “No way, no way.”

“Yeah. Seven human sacrifices.”

“No.” Dean breathes, “Who? Didn't they think we'd notice if seven townspeople suddenly disappeared?”

“That's where it gets tricky.” Says Sam.

“ _That's_ where it gets tricky?”

“About eighteen years ago there was a bus crash involving the Church of Avoth. Seven new mothers were going on some church retreat, they rented a bus to take them. Well the bus crashed. There were no survivors.”

“Okay,” Says Dean, “So what?”

“So... according to one of the church members we got to talk, the sacrifices are _those_ kids. The crash was a hoax. Or... at least the deaths of the kids was. I don't know, it's all really confusing. There's a lot of information.”  
  
“So, wait, was there a raid?”

Sam snorts, “Yeah, there was a raid. A lot of raids, actually. We have the entire Church of Avoth in custody.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so, you need me to come down there or something? You guys need shit to eat or what? What can I do here?”

“Okay, there's one thing.” Sam is quiet for a long moment, “It's kind of huge though.”

“...Okay.”

“And I understand if you can't help, but I don't really have anyone else to ask right now-”

“What is it, Sam?” Dean interrupts.

“I need you to take one of the sacrifice survivors.”

“You... what?”

 

-o-

 

Seven children. Seven. Kept in various bunkers and basements and occasionally attics for the past eighteen years. Kept only for the sake of the blood they would one day shed. Grown to be sacrifices.

Four of them are dead. Only three made it out of the church alive.

Dean stands behind a one-way mirror and watches the interrogation of a girl from the Church. She's not a sacrifice, just a member. She's young, maybe fourteen or fifteen, but even she knew what was going on.

Sam stands next to him, very quiet. Jo is doing the interrogation.

Anywhere else it would be odd for Dean to be here, watching a police investigation as a civilian. In fact, it might actually be illegal. He'll have to ask Sam later. But Hearth Ridge is a small town, and he's the Sheriff’s brother, and no one pays his presence any mind.

Jo is asking the girl about the survivors.

“Do you know where The Seven were kept?” Jo asks.

“All over.” The girl tells her, eyes on her hands, “They changed places. Sometimes Father Adler would keep them in the church basement. Sometimes they would stay with different brothers and sisters.”

“Did any of The Seven ever live with your family?”

The girl nods, pushing a strand of dark hair back behind her ear. Her eyes are red and puffy, she's been crying. “Three lived with us for about a year.”

Jo nods and writes something on the notepad she has in front of her. “Three of them lived with you for a year?”

“No, no.” The girl corrects her, “Three. The one with the blond hair.”

Jo blinks. “One of the survivors' _names_ is Three?”

“Those are their names.” The girl confirms, as though it should be obvious, “The Unclean are called One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, and Seven.”

“The Unclean?”

The girl nods.

“Why do you call them The Unclean?” Jo asks.

The girl shrugs. “That's what Father Adler said they were called.”

“Did you witness any abuse to The Seven?”

The girl looks confused.

“Did anyone hurt any of The Seven?” Jo explains, “Did anyone shout at them, deny them basic needs?”

The girl frowns. “What could they need? They're Unclean.”

 

-o-

 

From nonsense, half-answers, and almost-lies, they figure out that the survivors that made it out are the ones called Two, Five, and Six. They are, respectively, a redheaded girl, a massive brown haired boy, and a smaller brown haired boy. Despite what the people interrogated have said, the signs of mistreatment and malnutrition are obvious. Their bodies are horrors, scarred and bruised and twisted. They're much, much too skinny, eyes unfocused, hair brittle.

They're being kept at the Hearth Ridge Jefferson Memorial Hospital, in one room with a guard posted outside. The clean sheets and stark white walls are at odds with their bruised skin and hazy eyes. Three beds are lined along the wall, with a crowd of machines and IV poles. The smell of antiseptic is sharp in the air.

The tall boy is asleep, fingers twitching restlessly above the blankets. In the bed next to his, the redheaded girl is awake, but she stares sightless at the ceiling, still as stone. The shorter boy lies in the bed closest to the door, and his nervous eyes flit to Sam and Dean as they come in the door.

“Good morning.” Sam says to the boy in a gentle tone, moving slowly toward the bed, “You remember me?”

The boy gives a small nod, eyes flitting back and forth between the two brothers.

“You know I’m not going to hurt you?” Sam asks.

The boy says nothing, just purses his lips.

“I'm not going to hurt you.” Sam clarifies, “I'm here to keep you safe.” He taps the badge affixed to his uniform, “I'm the sheriff. Remember, we talked yesterday?”

The boy blinks, and there's a very slight downward turn to the corner of his mouth that suggests that, no, he doesn't remember.

“That's okay,” Sam tells him, “The doctor said you'd probably have some memory issues. Are you doing alright? Getting everything you need?”

This time, the boy's eyebrows go up just a little, and he parts his cracked lips. No sound comes out.

Sam takes a step closer to the boy's bedside. “Yes?” He says, encouragingly.

A very faint, hoarse whisper snakes from the boy's mouth. “What-” He stops, closes his eyes, tries to wet his lips, “What's going... to happen... to... us now.” His words are labored. He talks like every letter passing through his lips hurts.

“You'll be kept safe.” Sam promises, “We're going to put with good people, to live. Good, safe people. People who are going to take care of you.”

The boy swallows, closes his eyes, and turns his head away, apparently done with the conversation.

Sam sighs and turns to his brother, motions for him to come out into the hallway. Once out of the room, Sam gives a dry laugh.

“That's actually progress, if you believe it. Kid's been silent as the grave so far. The girl has been screaming a lot, and the other one... I don't know. He hasn't woken up. I don't know what all they did before we got there. Doctor seems to think it's some sort of magic induced coma.”

“I don't know what I was expecting but that was... so much worse.” Dean admits.

“I know.” Says Sam.

“Why me?” Dean wonders, “Why do you want me to take one of these kids?”

Sam frowns and rubs a hand over his mouth. “They can't stay here.” He says, although it sounds like he's talking more to himself than to Dean, “It's a small hospital, they need all their rooms. There aren't any assisted living facilities in Hearth Ridge and given all the magic wrapped up in this situation, I don't think it's safe to send them anywhere else. So what options do I have left?

“Jody and Donna are taking the boy in the coma and the girl, they've got a big enough house, Donna's a nurse, and I think they can handle it. You... I trust you. You have a spare room, you live near the hospital and the police station, you live above your work. And you know how to deal with traumatized kids.”

A look passes between them, memories of their past shift like shadows all around, but they don't speak of them.

“Okay.” Says Dean, “Okay. I'll do it. I'll need a couple days to clean out the spare room.”

“He's going to be here for at _least_ a few weeks anyway. They're so fucking dehydrated. Malnutrition, vitamin deficiency. All kinds of shit, Dean. It's so-” He cuts himself off and covers his eyes with his hand for a moment, “It's horrific. I know they look bad, but if you knew what was going on _inside_ their bodies- it's so much worse than it looks.”

Dean is disgusted, and horrified. Overcome with emotion. What these kids went through, what they've been going through their entire lives, it's worse than he can imagine. He doesn't _want_ to imagine it. Not now. Not here in this cold, quiet hallway.

“I fuckin' hate cults, man.” He says.

 

-o-

 

It's many hours later before Dean finally goes home, simultaneously exhausted and completely too wired to sleep. He stops in front of his shop for a moment, unable to believe that something so normal can exist in a world where people try to sacrifice children to demons. The crisp black letters painted onto the storefront above the door, reading, “Winchester Witchcraft Supply” seem almost unreal, although he sees them every day. Eventually, he moves on. Next to his storefront, in between it and the Sweet Thoughts Bakery next to it, is a small door. Behind the door is an old, sturdy staircase leading up to a little landing with a door on either side. One is to his apartment, and the other goes to Charlie's.

Charlie owns the Sweet Thoughts Bakery with her wife Gilda, and they live above their shop as Dean lives above his. They've become some of his best friends over the years, and they're a lot of fun to live next to. Now he wonders what they'll think of this situation.

He stands in the middle of his living room for a long time, wondering if it'll be good enough. It's homey, but it's small. The couch is worn, maybe he should get a new one.

He starts on the spare room right away, moving boxes full of overstock from his shop to his own room instead. It'll crowd things up a bit, but he'll be fine. He's partial to the smell of dried herbs anyway.

He paces, he frets, he moves things and cleans things until long after his shop would be open, but he finds that he can't handle it today. He can't handle going down there and talking to people like it's a normal day after the things he's seen. Eventually he does go down, but only to tape a sign up on his door telling the customers that there's been an emergency, and he won't be opening.

 

He spends two days cleaning his apartment before he gets the idea to go to the hospital and visit, and afterward he's ashamed that it took him so long to think of it.

He gets up very early the next morning and picks several books from the shelf in his living room, and makes his way over to the hospital.

The guard at the door of the Survivors' room frowns at Dean, but he recognizes him and lets him through.

Again, as the last time he was here, the redhead is staring at the ceiling, the tall boy is asleep, and the smaller boy's eyes go to the door as soon as Dean walks in. His gaze tracks Dean as he walks closer, but his face is unmoving.

Finally, very slowly and carefully, Dean lowers himself into a chair by the boy's bed. He gives what he hopes is a friendly smile.

“I'm Dean.” He says, “Remember me? I came in with the sheriff a couple days ago?”

The boy says nothing, but Dean thinks he sees recognition in his eyes.

“I thought you might be bored.” Dean holds up the small stack of books in his hand, “I brought books.”

This time, there's a definite spark of something in the boy's eyes. They widen just a little, his mouth twitches.

“I brought, uh, The Hundred and One Dalmatians, The Golden Compass, and a couple Nancy Drew books. I thought maybe I could read them aloud?”

There's a long, silent moment where Dean waits on the edge to see if anything will happen at all. And then, very slowly, the boy nods.

“Yeah?” Says Dean, “Which one?”

Through a long series of barely noticeable nods and head-shakes, Dean finally gathers that the boy wants to hear The Hundred and One Dalmatians. So he leans back in his chair, opens the book, and he starts to read.

He reads for two hours before he has to leave to open his shop, and at the end of it he feels a little better.

“I'll come back tomorrow.” He tells the boy, “And we'll read some more.”

The boy says nothing, as Dean has come to expect, but Dean would swear that the boy looks more alert than he had earlier. It may just be wishful thinking, but it's all he has to go on for the moment.

 

The next day, he comes back, and he reads some more. He watches the nurses when they come, takes note of the bevy of pills they have the children swallow. A particularly friendly blond nurse named Jess tries to explain to him what all of the pills are for, but it goes over his head.

The boy doesn't talk to him at all for the first week. He nods and shakes his head, but he doesn't say a single word. Dean imagines that the boy looks happy to see him in the mornings, but imagination is all it is. There's no way to tell.

It's a week and two days before the boy speaks to Dean. Dean has been reading one of the Nancy Drew books, and they're very close to the end but Dean has to leave to open the shop.

He closes the book and starts to stand when he hears,

“Wait.”

“What?” Says Dean, flabbergasted. He looks down and finds the boy looking up at him with a pleading expression.

“Don't leave.” The boy whispers, “Please?”

Dean stares down at him, book still clutched in his hand. He needs to leave, to open his shop, but this- this is important. Being closed today won't make too much difference, surely. Not enough to pry him away from those, deep, sorrowful eyes in any case.

“Okay.” He says, “Okay, I’ll stay. Let me, um- let me call my neighbor real quick, okay? I'm just going to step out into the hall, I’ll be right back.”

Charlie is, of course, awake when he calls. She's been up for hours, working down in her shop.

He asks her to hang up a sign on the door again, and she agrees, but she also says,

“You better tell me what's going on.”

“Of course.” Dean says, “I'll tell you later.” He's been meaning to talk to her about all of it, but he's not exactly sure what to say. That soon he'll have a ward that was raised to be a human sacrifice? That's not the sort of thing you just blurt out.

When he goes back into the room, the boy looks up. He looks a little surprised, but also very slightly pleased. Dean counts it as a win. He lowers himself back into the chair.

“Should I keep reading?”

The boy nods.

“Okay, lets hear about Nancy kickin' some ass.”

 

“What should I call you?” Dean asks one day, about halfway through the second Nancy Drew mystery.

The boy's eyes widen, he wasn't expecting the question.

“I mean,” Dean continues, “I know they called you guys numbers, but I thought maybe... maybe you go by something else?”

The boy just frowns, eyebrows furrowing. He says nothing, but turns his head to look up at the ceiling instead of at Dean. Dean doesn't bring it up again.

The next day when Dean comes in, the boy is sitting up in bed and already has a book in his lap. Dean stops short, confused.

“It's a baby name book.” Says a voice behind Dean, he turns and finds Jess smiling from the doorway, “He's been looking through it for hours.”

“Did he... _ask_ for it?” Dean asks, wondering if the boy talks to other people, just not him.

Jess shakes her head. “I heard you asking him yesterday what you should call him so I brought the book to see if he wanted to look through it. I thought it might help.”

“Huh.” Says Dean.

When he sits down in the chair next to the bed, the boy gives him a nod of acknowledgment, which is somehow the weirdest thing that's happened this week.

“Hey, bud.” Dean says.

The boy turns back to his book.

“Did you... not want me to read today?” Dean asks.

The boy looks back up and nods quickly.

“You... _do_ want me to read?”

The boy nods again.

“Okay.” Says Dean. He reads, and the boy looks through his book the whole time.

Before he goes, Dean asks, “Did you find a name?”

The boy shakes his head, frowning in frustration.

“I'll bring you another name book tomorrow.” Dean promises.

 

Dean brings two baby naming books and a stack of various magazines, thinking that maybe the boy might like a name in one of those.

The boy peruses them seriously as Dean reads Nancy Drew aloud and, after an hour, he suddenly makes a surprised sound.

Dean stops reading and looks to the boy, waiting for him to say something.

“I... I can pick... any name?” He asks hesitantly, taking labored breaths in between each few words.

“Any name you want.” Dean promises.

“I like... this one.” He says, pointing to the page of his book.

“Which one?” Dean leans over to look at the book, but when the boy shies away Dean moves back. He doesn't want to make the kid uncomfortable.

“Cas... tiel.” The boys says slowly, sounding out the word, “Castiel.”

“Castiel. That's what you want to be called? Castiel? Are you sure?”

The boy nods. “I like it.”

“Okay, Castiel it is.”

The boy- Castiel- gives a small smile. It startles Dean so much he almost falls out of his chair.

“Okay, Castiel.” Dean says, trying it out, “More Nancy Drew?”

“Yes.” Says Castiel.

 

The next morning when Dean shows up, there seems to be some sort of commotion. At first glance, the survivors' room is in chaos. Castiel isn't in his bed, but instead is in the redheaded girl's. He's holding her, and she's gripping him for dear life, wailing at the top of her lungs.

Jess is at the side of the bed, plugging a tube from an IV into her cannula.

“It's okay,” She says, seeing Dean's expression, “This happens a lot.”

“It does?”

The girl wails for a moment longer, until whatever was in the IV works its way into her system and she quiets to a low sob. Next to her, Castiel is gently petting her hair, looking distressed.

“Yeah, it does.” Jess sighs, holding her hand out to Castiel, “Come on, babe, let's get you back into your bed.”

Castiel shakes his head and presses his face into the girl's hair.

“It's okay, baby, it's alright.” Jess tells him soothingly, “She's gonna be just fine, don't worry. You can stay for a minute but then you have to get back into your own bed, alright?”

Castiel gives a small nod.

He holds the girl for about ten minutes, until she's calmed down and seems peaceful once again. Then he climbs slowly out of her bed and walks unsteadily back to his own.

Having never seen Castiel's legs out from under the covers, Dean is taken aback by how pale and thin they look under the white hospital gown. His joints look huge, but there's almost no meat to speak of. It's a wonder that they're supporting him at all.

Even after he's finally climbed into his own bed and pulled his covers up over himself, Castiel still seems shaken. His hands are trembling, face morose.

On instinct, Dean reaches out and touches the boy's hand.

“Hey,” He says, “She's gonna be okay. They know how to take care of her here.”

Castiel looks, wide-eyed, down at where Dean is touching his hand. Dean stays very still and, after a moment, Castiel relaxes. Well, not quite. He looks like he's still very aware of the fact that Dean's fingers are resting on his knuckles, but he's trying not to be bothered by it.

“Does this bother you?” Dean asks gently.

Castiel takes a breath and frowns, shakes his head. “No.” he says, very quietly, “Just...” He frowns again, and falls silent.

Dean waits, looking up and Castiel and waiting for him to say more.

“It's... different.” Castiel says finally, not really clearing anything up. But he seems like that's all he meant to say, and after that he clams up.

So Dean leaves his hand there, and they sit in silence for a long time listening to the redheaded girl cry quietly, watching Jess gently check her vitals.

“She'll be okay.” Dean says again, mostly to himself.

Castiel stares down at his knees. He shakes his head. “She's broke.” He whispers, so quiet that Dean almost doesn't hear.

 

-o-

 

The day that Castiel finally comes home with Dean is not an easy one. Dean shows up early in the morning and finds the boy curled up in his bed with his arms wrapped around his knees, sobbing. He's the only one left the room, the other two children are gone already.

“Hey, hey.” Dean says gently, setting down his tote and going to the bed, “Hey, what's wrong?”

Castiel gives several more heaving sobs. “They're gone.” He chokes out.

“It's okay.” Dean tells him, reaching out to set a hand on his elbow, “It's okay, they're safe.”

“They're _gone_!” Castiel insists, louder now than Dean has heard him say anything before.

“We can go visit them.” Dean explains, “They're not going too far away, just down the road. We can visit. I promise, they're okay.”

Castiel looks up at him, tears shining in his eyes. He says nothing, but his sobs start to taper off. Dean stands there with his hand on Castiel's elbow until the boy stops shuddering.

“You alright?” Dean asks.

After a while, Castiel nods. He's okay. He slumps back down onto the bed on his side, which is not exactly progress.

“I brought you some clothes to wear home.” Dean goes and gets his tote, which he brings to the bed and opens to show Castiel the contents, “I don't know what size you wear so I just brought some of my own clothes. They'll be big, but it's a pretty short trip so I thought it would probably be okay.”

Castiel just looks at the bag. He's still laying on his side, eyes a little unfocused.

Dean shifts nervously on his feet.

“If you don't feel up to leaving today, we can wait. I'll ask them to let you have the room a little longer.”

Castiel shakes his head, but he doesn't move. He stares sightlessly at the wall until Jess shows up.

“It's been a rough day for him.” She tells Dean.

"Is there anything I can do?"

“Talk to him? I can give him some mild sedatives but I'm not sure how much that'll help.”

Dean sighs, “Give me a minute and I'll let you know.”

After Jess leaves, Dean sits down, this time on the edge of the bed. He sets his hand gently on Castiel's thin shoulder, ready to move if it makes the boy uncomfortable.

“You've had kind of a shit eighteen years, haven’t you?” He asks, mostly to himself.

Castiel doesn't acknowledge him.

“You want to know a secret? I grew up in a cult.”

This time, Castiel's eyes flicker to him and then quickly away, and Dean feels pleased to have finally gotten his attention. He breathes a sigh of resignation and tells Castiel about his childhood.

“Me and my little brother, that's the sheriff, we grew up on a compound a few miles out of town called Mires Grove. It was one of those _old man with dozen child brides_ type situations. There was this guy named Azazel, had like ten wives, none of 'em over twenty. Whole compound thought he was, like, the messiah or something. I still don't know how mom got mixed up in it, she wasn't married to the guy, she was too old and already had me and my brother. Maybe she was kidnapped, maybe it was something else. We don't know.

“Anyway it was- it was shit. Obviously nothing like what you went through, but it still sucked. Azazel wanted a bunch of young wives but he didn't really want any of their offspring, so we basically were just left to ourselves unless he was mad and wanted somebody to smack around.”

Dean takes a deep breath, watching as Castiel's fingers scratch at the white hospital sheets.

“So, long story short, we were there until I was fourteen, Sam was ten. Everything's normal and then all of a sudden one day there's screaming and gunshots and I don't know what the fuck to do, I’m scared, Sam's scared, all the other kids are terrified. Turns out it was my dad. Yeah, mine and Sam's real dad. Finally tracked mom to the compound, started shooting up the place. Killed mom, killed Azazel, most of the other adults, and then himself. We waited around until the cops came and then everybody went to the hospital or foster care.”

Dean gives a rueful smile. “I know what it's like to lose most of your family at once. And I know there's nothing I can say- nothing anyone can say- that will make it better. But I want you to know that I understand, alright? And I'll take you to see your- your siblings, or whatever they are to you, as much as you want. Okay?”

Castiel looks up at him, and holds his gaze for a long time before finally giving one, short nod and starting to slowly sit up. He wont change until Dean leaves, despite the fact that Dean isn't particularly sure Castiel can stand for that long on his own. When he finally comes back in, Castiel is practically drowning in Dean's clothes. They hang off of him like clothes off a scarecrow.

“Very handsome.” Dean tells him, giving him a thumbs up and hiding a wince.

Castiel's frown tells him that he isn't fooling anybody, but he sticks to it. Jess brings a wheelchair and they bundle Castiel into it to wheel him out. The boy stays silent as they make their way through the halls, as Jess instructs Dean on Castiel's vitamin regimen, gives him prescriptions and a plastic baggy full of vitamin bottles. Castiel's fingers dig into the armrests every time they pass another person in the halls, and he visibly tenses when they reach the hospital doors.

“I'm right here,” Dean reminds him, quietly, “Nothing's going to happen.”

Castiel says nothing, but his breathing quickens as Dean wheels him down the sidewalk toward the apartment, and by the time they get there he's visibly shaking, even though it's just a couple blocks.

“Okay,” Dean sighs, relieved, when they finally reach the door, “Now how the hell do we get you upstairs?” To his dismay, Dean realizes that he hasn't thought at all about this. Wheelchair mobility just isn't something that has ever crossed his mind. Nevertheless, Castiel will have to use this one for a while at least, and Dean needs to figure this out.

“Okay.” He says, after some thought, “I'll carry you up and come back for the chair. I'll figure the rest out later.”

When he goes to pick up Castiel, though, the boy flinches away from him, nerves stripped raw from their trip over. He's shaking all over, breathing hard, hands clenched into tight fists.

“Okay, it's okay.” Dean says, kneeling down on the sidewalk in front of him, “We're here. I just have to get you upstairs. Can I pick you up?”

Castiel shakes his head, eyes shut.

“Okay. Can you walk? Maybe you can climb the stairs.”  
  
Another head shake.

“Okay. Alright. We'll just chill for a minute, let me know when you're ready to go up, okay?”

Finally, he gets a nod.

Dean sits down on the concrete, content to wait, until finally Castiel begins to relax. He looks expectantly up at Dean, who stretches.

“You ready?”

“Yes.” Says Castiel.

Dean carries him bridal style, arms under his legs and back, and works as many door handles as he can with his knees. Unfortunately, his apartment door is a knob, but Castiel surprises him by reaching out and turning it himself. Inside, Dean leaves Castiel on the living room couch while he goes to get the wheelchair, and when he comes back he finds the boy looking around the room with wide eyes.

“I know it's not much.” Dean says, leaning the temporarily collapsed chair against the wall and depositing Castiel's medication on the coffee table, “But it's safe, it's clean, and it's quiet.”

Castiel nods solemnly. He looks down at his hands, clasped on his lap atop overlarge jeans, still trembling. “Thank you.” He says.

The rest of the day goes by fairly quickly. Jess gave very specific instructions about what Castiel can and can't eat, and so Dean makes rice and applesauce and watches him pick at it disinterestedly.

“You've got to eat.” Dean says.

“I'm not very hungry.” Castiel tells him, but according to Jess this is what he always says.

“Well, eat what you can, I guess. Maybe after that we could read or watch tv?”

Castiel nods, but continues to do little more than push his food around the plate. When Dean finally clears it away and Dean asks what he'd like to do, he gets a less than satisfactory answer.

“Whatever... you'd like.” Castiel says quietly.

“Do you have a preference?”

“Whatever is easiest.”

Dean fights the urge to frown, and instead grabs their latest Nancy Drew book off of the shelf. “Why don't we finish this one, and then we'll figure out what to do next after that.”

He brings Castiel a blanket and tucks him snugly into the couch, then sits on the other end and begins to read. Castiel is tense at first when Dean's eyes flick up to him every few minutes, he's still nervous about being in this foreign place. Eventually, though, Castiel begins to grow accustomed to it. His face relaxes slowly into something more comfortable, less terrified and more sleepy, atop the blanket his hands stop trembling, and he leans his head against the back of the couch. After a while his eyes begin to drift shut, and Dean declares it time for bed.

“Come on,” He says, patting Castiel on the knee, “Lets get you to bed.”

He helps Castiel into the guest room, which has been outfitted with fresh sheets and pillows, a noise machine, a television and a currently empty bookshelf.

“Okay, you hang tight.” Dean tells him, “I'm gonna grab you some pajamas.”

He'll have to get Castiel some of his own pajamas, but for tonight Dean's will do. He's only gone a few moments, but when he comes back he finds Castiel completely naked sitting on the side of the bed.

“Whoa.” Dean looks quickly away from Castiel, from his skinny, scarred body and his eerily impassive face.

“How... would you like me?” Castiel asks quietly.

Dean looks back at him, but keeps his eyes carefully on the boy's face. “Sorry, what?”

Castiel stares down at his knees. “How... would you like to... partake?”

“In...?”

“Me.”

Finally, to Dean's horror, it dawns on him. “Oh. Oh wow, no. Oh boy. Okay. Just- here, put these on,” He thrusts the pajamas toward the boy like a shield, “And, uh, I’ll get you some water. I'll be right back. Just- put some clothes on.”

There's a sickening mixture of horror and confusion and anger stirring in Dean's stomach as he grabs a bottled water from the fridge. For some reason, he hadn't thought about Castiel being sexually abused. But of course, there it is. His fingers tighten on the refrigerator handle until he fears he'll break it.

Castiel is, thankfully, dressed when Dean comes back, in too-big pajamas that have little cactus printed all over.

“Okay,” Dean says, handing the boy the water bottle, “I guess, uh, can I sit down?”

Castiel nods, and Dean sits down next to him on the comforter. He takes a breath, unsure how to start this conversation. He's not even sure he's the one who should be doing this, but he's the only one here.

“I'm here to take care of you.” He says, after some thought, “I'm here to protect you, and watch over you, and to help you when you need it. That doesn't mean you have to have sex with me. You don't have to do that with someone just because they help you, or because you're in their house, or even because _they_ want you to. Okay?”

Castiel gives a terse nod, but he's not meeting Dean's eyes, he's frowning, his shoulders are tense.

Dean tries again. “Sex is... something really personal, is what I’m trying to say. It's about love, or at least physical attraction. You should never feel _obligated_ to do it.”

“Should I leave?” Castiel asks after a moment.

“What? No. This is- you're welcome here, okay? This is your home. This is your room, your personal space. That's not going to change.”

“But you don't... want to join?”

“No, I don't.”

There's a long moment of silence, and then all of the tension goes out of Castiel's shoulders. He sighs, gives a full body shudder, and finally looks up at Dean. His expression is clear, and Dean feels sick to his stomach at the thought that, at the end of a stressful day, _not being fucked_ is the thing that has Castiel calming down. He wonders if the kid has been worrying about this all day long.

“Alright, you got your water. Take your medicine?”

“Yes.”

“Need anything else?”

Castiel thinks, purses his lips. Shakes his head.

“Okay, well I’m just across the hall if you need me. Anything at all, you can wake me up. I'll leave the door open so I can hear if you yell, alright? You know where the bathroom is.”

Dean stands and brushes invisible dirt off of his jeans. “I'm gonna go ahead an turn out the light. You can use your bedside lamps if you want, there's a nightlight on the wall but you can take it out if it bothers you.”

“This is... _my_ room?” Castiel asks, like he can't believe it.

“Yeah, man. Your room.”

Castiel spreads his fingers over the comforter, looking at it like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. “Okay.”

“Alright, well, I usually wake up about six, but I don't have to open the shop until eight, so I'll let you sleep until then. Is that alright?”

“Yes.” Says Castiel.

“Okay. Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

 

 

 


	2. Honey Garlic Chicken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has commented and left kudos, I hope you enjoy this second chapter!

Dean doesn't sleep all that well. He worries that Castiel might be scared, that this new, dark apartment might give the kid nightmares. He wonders what he's going to do about clothes and whether or not Castiel will be okay to sit with him in the shop in the morning. He thinks about the things that must have been done to Castiel and he thinks about his own past with cults. He thinks and worries until the sun begins to climb above the horizon and, suddenly, it's time to get up.

Dean curses himself and the world as he drags himself out of bed, coffee calling to him like a siren from the kitchen.

He looks in on Castiel on his way to the kitchen, and finds the boy curled up tight, one arm under a pillow, looking more calm than Dean has seen him before. Soft in sleep, he looks like he might just be a regular kid, graduating high-school, if one ignores his thin limbs and the permanent bruise-like shadows under his eyes.

Dean moves on, bustling as quietly as he can into the kitchen. He opens the window above the sink and lets the air flow in, listens to the sounds of the town waking up. After a bit he hears the door to the apartment next door open and close, and he recognizes Charlie's footsteps trodding down the stairs. He'll have to talk to her. He'll have to tell her the situation, sooner or later, because she's always coming over and he doesn't want her to startle the kid into a panic attack. It feels like such a personal thing, though, that he hesitates to share it with her. You don't want people to know you've come from a cult, it changes the way they look at you, and Dean wants Castiel to be able to have as normal a time as he possibly can. So maybe he won't tell Charlie right away, or maybe he'll just tell her a partial truth. It's not something that he has to figure out right this second, but it'll stay in the back of his mind and bother him until he does.

He makes eggs for himself, and sits down to look over the extensive notes Jess has written him until about seven-thirty when he makes some oatmeal and then goes to wake the kid.

He's still sleeping, and Dean really hates to wake him, but he can't just leave him here. He just doesn't feel comfortable doing that yet. Once Castiel gets settled it, sure, he can do what he wants. But as of now, Dean has to wake him up.

He knocks on the open door frame, “Castiel?”

Castiel stirs, but doesn't wake, until Dean says his name a second time. Castiel gasps and jolts upright, only to groan and grab his head, scrunching his eyes shut.

“Hey, it's just me.” Dean says, coming slowly into the room, “You're in the apartment, remember?”

Castiel shakes his head, taking short, gasping breaths that threaten to send him into hyperventilation.

“It's Dean. I'm here to help you.” Dean sits gingerly on the bed next to Castiel, “You came to my apartment yesterday, we had supper, then we read Nancy Drew. You remember?”

Castiel is silent, but his breathing begins to slow. After some time, he lets go of his head. He nods.

“I remember.” He says quietly.

“You hungry? I made some oatmeal.”

“Okay.”

“I left you some clothes in the bathroom, just come out when you're ready.”

“Okay.”

 

Getting Castiel down to the shop is a problem. He's dressed in Dean's too-big clothes again, a belt on its smallest loop is the only thing keeping his jeans up and he doesn't look very happy about it. He's sitting on the top step of the stairs that go down to the street, eyes closed, trembling like he's just been handed a death sentence. Dean has a bottle of anxiety pills in his hand that Jess said were “for emergencies”. He's not sure if this constitutes an emergency or not, or just how far out these will take Castiel.

He sits down next to Castiel on the step and listens to him breathe.

“I can't leave you alone in the apartment.” Dean tells him honestly, “I'm sorry.”

He gets a nod of acknowledgment.

“What is it you're worried about?” He asks, hoping to get to the core of the problem.

Castiel frowns at him, opens his mouth, then closes it. He does this several more times, wringing his hands nervously. “It's just- too much. I'm sorry.”

“Okay. To much... noise? Too bright? To many people...?”

“Yes. I'm sorry. I'm... trying.”

“Hey, I know.” Dean says, putting a hand lightly on Castiel's shoulder, “I know. Once we're in the shop you can go in the back room and read, and you won't have to see anyone if you don't want to. Will that help?”

Castiel grimaces, but nods.

“Can you walk down the stairs?”

Castiel shakes his head.

“Can I pick you up?”

Another head shake.

“Okay. Do you think you just need some more time, or is it a complete no go?”

Castiel thinks for a while, “Can I... maybe try...” He nods toward the pill bottle in Dean's hand.

“Are you sure you want to? Jess said they're pretty strong.”

“Yes. Please.”

“Alright, let me get you a water bottle.”

The pill, unpronounceable as the name may be, works surprisingly fast and has a hell of a kick. Dean can tell that it's working when Castiel's shoulders visibly untense.

“You okay?” He asks.

“Oh. Wow.” Says Castiel, blinking slowly, “Yes. I'm good. I'm very good, I think.”

High as a kite, Castiel doesn't protest when Dean scoops him up and carries him down the stairs. On the couch in the back of the shop, Dean leaves him with a book and a bottle of water.

“Smells good in here.” Castiel says, stretching his feet out in front of him on the cushion.

“That's probably the herbs. Or the incense.”

“Hmm.” Says Castiel, closing his eyes, “Can I take a nap? Didn't sleep so well last night.”

His speech is slightly slurred, but has lost the pained quality Dean has come to expect. Whatever it was that made it hurt for Castiel to talk doesn't seem to be bothering him now.

“Yeah, you can take a nap. You need anything, I'm right outside. Just yell and I'll be right there.”

“Thank you.” Castiel says, bending willingly to the press of sleep. His breath stutters for a moment, and then he's out.

“That's some heavy-duty shit.” Dean remarks to the empty room, looking down at the pill bottle in his hand. He determines to keep them hidden safely away, pills like these could become trouble fast, and the kid doesn't need any more of that in his life.

The morning goes smoothly. Dean goes about his regular routine, aware of the unseen addition to his shop all the while, but not particularly bothered by it. Castiel must not have had much rest during the night at all, because he sleeps easily until noon, when Dean wakes him gently for lunch.

It's heartbreaking the amount of fear and confusion in Castiel's eyes when he wakes, even if Dean doesn't touch him and only says his name very quietly. The boy goes rigid, pulling his knees to his chest as if expecting a blow to his abdomen, which, maybe he is.

“It's just me,” Dean says, a mantra a feels he'll be saying a lot of for quite some time, “You're safe.”

Some of the tension goes out of Castiel's shoulders, but he doesn't move, he doesn't uncurl to make himself vulnerable.

“It's twelve, I thought you might want something to eat.”

“Oh.” Says Castiel, “I... I'm alright.”

“You should eat something,” Dean presses softly, “Your lunchtime pills have to be taken with food.”

Castiel grimaces, but concedes, “Whatever's easiest for you.”

“Tell you what, I was thinking about getting something from the cafe across the street. They've got some pretty good soups, why don't I go get you a menu and you can see what sounds good?”

This time, it's a shake of the head, “You can... just get me whatever is cheapest. I don't want... to be a bother.”

Dean fights the urge to pat the boy on the back, sure that the gesture would be taken the wrong way. Instead, he smiles. “It's not a bother. I haven’t decided what I want either, anyway, I'll grab a menu. Be right back.”

When he comes back, Castiel has sat up, looking nervous and picking at the soft skin around his fingernails. Dean sits down next to him and opens the menu.

“Here we go, lots of options. Lets check this shit out. We could each get a soup and a salad, I'm pretty sure you're allowed to eat salads.”

He looks expectantly at Castiel, only to have the boy color and turn his head away.

“Whatever you like.” He says.

His hands are trembling again, Dean sees, tucked under the hem of his large shirt as they are. Dean sets the menu down between them and angles his body toward Castiel's in what he hopes is a non-threatening manner.

“Castiel,” He says, “I'm here to help. And I'm going to be as honest with you as I possibly can as long as you're here, okay? I'd really appreciate it if you were honest with me too. What are you having trouble with?”

Castiel looks at him, finally, bottom lip trembling minutely. “I...” He shuts his eyes, takes a breath, “I just don't want... to be a burden.”

“You're not.” Dean assures him, “You're not a burden, I promise. In fact, you know, I like having someone around the house. It's nice.”

Castiel is unconvinced. “You shouldn't... have to spend money on me.”

“It's nothing I wouldn't already spend.”

Castiel purses his lips and shakes his head. “You shouldn't- I'm not- I'm not...” He trails off.

“You're not what?”

“Good.” Castiel whispers, the noise barely audible even in the small room, “I'm not good.”

“I don't think that's true.” Dean says, “And I know-” He holds up his hands to ward off the inevitable argument, “I know that I don't know you very well. But I'm good at reading people, and I'm good at reading auras and trusting my gut. And everything I see and feel is telling me that you _are_ good.”

Castiel looks at him, lips parted on a question he seems too nervous to ask. Dean waits, lets him gather himself enough to form the question.

“What- what do you see?”

The whole answer is long- too long, convoluted and complicated. Dean thinks, and in the end simplifies it as best he can, breaks it down to the very core.

“Potential.” He says.

“Potential.” Castiel says, like a prayer, “Potential.”

“You just have to give yourself a chance.”

Castiel swallows, and Dean can see by the way his hands tense that he's digging his fingernails into his palms. “I don't- I... I don't know how.”

“I'm here to help you.” Dean reminds him, “And I’ll tell you the very, very first step: Pick a soup.”

 

It takes a while, and much coaxing, but Castiel finally settles on the Roasted Italian Sweet Potato Soup, while Dean decides to go with Spinach Tortellini. Castiel eats about half of his soup before claiming a full belly, and then downs the bevy of pills and supplements marked for midday. Castiel is subdued as they eat, but he doesn't seem quite as nervous as before.

“The store is locked.” Dean tells him, “I always close up for lunch. If you want to go look around, I promise no one will come in.”

Castiel looks curious, he brings the tips of his thumb and forefinger together on his right hand, “Can I?”

“Yeah, of course. Look around all you want.”

Castiel moves slowly, his legs still too thin and weak to go very far or very fast. Luckily, Winchester Witchcraft Supply is not a large store. It's simple, one long wooden counter with a cash register, a door behind it leads to the back room. There are several rows of books, two tables displaying crystals. Other shelves hold tarot cards, incense, bundles of sage, bags of dried herbs, jewelry, and various ingredients for spells and potions.

Castiel looks around the store with a sense of wide-eyed awe that Dean finds surprising, particularly because this kid grew up in a demon worshiping cult.

“Are you a witch?” Castiel wonders.

“I am.” Dean says, “Did the Church of Avoth not practice magic?”

“Only... the priests. Father Adler says- said- it was a sin... for anyone else.”

Dean shakes his head. “Anyone can do magic, with a little practice.”

Castiel's hand stills over a chunk of raw moonstone that sits on the display table. Dean can see the question forming in his mind like it's a physical thing, spilling hopeful green tendrils from his lips before the words have even made their way to his mouth.

“Could I... do magic?” He asks on a cautious breath, ready to suck the words back into his mind at a moment's notice.

“Absolutely.” Says Dean.

Castiel's fingers curl, and it doesn't take a trained eye to see the flicker of interest across his face. This, more than almost anything else, makes Dean hopeful. A healthy interest in something can go a long way toward recovery, as Dean well knows.

Castiel looks around silently, until it's twelve thirty and time to open the store again. Castiel is retreating into the back room again when Dean stops him.

“Here,” he says, holding out his hand to Castiel, palm up.

Castiel reaches out tentatively, and takes the bracelet from Dean's hand. “What is it?”

“Tiger's eye.” Dean says of the brown and gold crystal beads, “For protection. It's yours.”

For a long moment, Castiel says nothing. He runs his fingers over the smooth round beads, mouth opening and closing at regular intervals. When he finally looks up, Dean is only a little surprised to find his eyes watery.

“It'll... keep me safe?”

“It'll help.”

Castiel nods solemnly. “Thank you.” He says, slipping the bracelet over his wide hand and onto his small wrist, covered in scars from long-healed wounds that make Dean wince to think about.

 

The week continues in much the same way, on one long exhale. Castiel is quiet in the extreme, but the problem with his throat seems to be clearing up, so that when he does speak it finally comes out smooth. He doesn't seem to be eating enough, but he's taking all his vitamins and it's difficult to tell when he's not eating solids. To his dismay, it takes Dean the better part of the week to realize that Castiel is having nightmares, because he doesn't cry out or make a fuss, in predictable fashion. Dean only realizes because he gets up to pee in the middle of the night and glances into Castiel's room on his way back, and spots him curled up, but obviously awake. Dean can see his wide eyes open in the gleam of the nightlight, but he's trembling like a leaf.

Dean gives a soft knock on the door frame and steps into the room to sit lightly on the side of the bed.

“You okay, bud?”

He gets one short, sharp nod in response.

“Anything I can do?”

Castiel shakes his head and burrows further into his blankets, shutting his eyes tight.

“I can't sleep either,” Dean lies, “I was thinking about making some tea and watching Netflix in the living room, if you feel like joining me.”

He makes a pot of chamomile and pours it into two mugs just as Castiel comes shuffling timidly out of his room, blanket wrapped around his thin shoulders. He settles himself on one end of the couch and Dean takes the other. They sit in companionable silence in the dim glow of the television, sipping tea until Castiel falls asleep quite suddenly, nearly spilling his drink everywhere before Dean takes it quickly from his limp hand. Dean sits for a time longer at the other end, watching in the dim light to make sure Castiel doesn't wake, until finally he falls asleep against the cushions as well.

The next morning is no picnic, Dean is too old to be falling asleep on couches and his back announces it with loud and insistent pains to his spine and surrounding muscles. Castiel, though, seems better rested than Dean has ever seen him. His eyes are bright, his movements quicker. He stays awake the whole day and, at lunch, Dean manages to coax a small smile out of him. It's a good day. His back aches, but it's a good day. Living room movies become an almost nightly occurrence, with Castiel falling peacefully asleep on the couch and Dean finally resorting to sleeping on the floor instead of the couch, because it's easier on his back and he doesn't want to leave Castiel to wake up in the living room alone.

Aside from helping Castiel finally get enough sleep, this quiet ritual has also served to build Castiel's trust in Dean. He talks a little more, he's not quite so skittish, and one day he even comes out of the backroom while Dean is sitting behind the counter of Winchester Witchcraft Supply.

“Um, Dean.” Castiel says from the doorway, so quite that Dean thinks at first he's imagining it.

Dean starts, then tries not to look too excited that Castiel has come out of hiding. “Yeah, Cas?”

Castiel takes a steadying breath, “I was wondering...” He tapers off, frowning, “I mean- I was just thinking...”

“What's up?”

Castiel chews nervously on his bottom lip, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. “I thought... I'd like to see my sister?”

It takes Dean a moment to realize who he's talking about. The redhead, another survivor. “Absolutely!” Dean says, maybe a little too enthusiastically based on Castiel's flinch backward. He reigns himself in, “Yeah, totally. You think you're up for the trip across town? It's not a long way, but you'll still be out.”

“Oh,” Says Castiel, frowning harder, “I- I don't know. I'm sorry.”

“Hey, it's okay.” Dean says as Castiel begins to retreat back to the doorway, “You never have to be sorry for asking questions. Did you want to see her today?”

“I- I don't think I can do it.” Castiel looks down at his hands and his shoulders slump, “I shouldn't have asked, I’m sorry.”

“That's okay.” Dean assures him, “Whenever you feel like you're ready to see her, we'll go.”

“Okay.” Castiel sighs.

“On that note, though,” Dean begins cautiously, “You've got a doctor's appointment tomorrow.”

Dean knows plenty of people who don't like the doctor, even a few who shun the idea altogether, but no one who has the reaction that Castiel does.

He goes rigid, eyes wide, and he turns pale as a sheet. He crosses his hands over his chest to grasp his own elbows as he begins to take gasping breaths.

“Hey, okay,” Dean says, getting slowly out of his seat, hands outstretched. He takes a gentle hold of Castiel's elbows to guide him back into the backroom to sit on the couch, where he continues to panic.

Dean puts a hand on Castiel's back and rubs small, slow circles there until he starts to calm down. He marvels for a moment about how quickly a person can get used to a kind touch, even when they've only known hurtful hands all their life.

“Can you tell me what you're having trouble with?”

Castiel shakes his head, but it seems more like a reaction than an answer. Sure enough, given another moment he speaks, “I don't like doctors.” He says, arms wrapped tight around his torso, “I don't like them. They hurt me, and they touch me and I- I don't _like_ to be touched.”

Dean looks at his own hand resting on Castiel's back and begins to draw it away, but at the hurt look Castiel shoots him, he'll admit he's not sure what to do.

“Is it okay if I-?”

Castiel nods, “You're okay. You're... I don't mind it. But,” He shakes his head, “I don't want them to.”

“Alright,” Dean scoots a little closer and wraps his arm around Castiel's back in a sort of half-hug, “So if they don't touch you, you'd feel better about it?”

A nod.

“Okay. Well, I'm sure some of the things he'll want to check will involve touching, but maybe we can work something out. Dr. Tran is a reasonable guy, I think he'll be open to suggestions. He's my doctor too, you know.” Dean gives Castiel's back a small squeeze, “I started seeing him a couple years ago. He's real nice, a real good doctor. A little young, but I trust him. I'd never take you to someone I didn't trust.”

After several long moments, Castiel uncrosses his arms to wipe beneath his eyes at tears Dean didn't even know were falling. He relaxes some, against Dean's side, and after some time he begins to breathe normally again.

“Okay,” Castiel says quietly, “You wouldn't take me to someone you didn't trust.” He says it under his breath, like he's trying to convince himself. He's picking at the skin around his fingernails now, and Dean can't help wincing when he sees blood begin to well at the edge.

“I wouldn't.” Dean promises, “I trust Dr. Tran. And I'll be right there with you.”

“You'll be right there.” Castiel says to himself.

“I won't let anything bad happen.”

“Hmm.”

“I promise. And the doctor's office is right there next to the hospital, so it's only like two blocks away.”

“I have to go outside?” Castiel asks.

It's a phrase that might be funny if not for the blatant dismay in Castiel's voice. He's been able to walk the few feet between the door leading up to the apartments and the door to the shop, but he's still extremely anxious when faced with anything further.

“We did it the first day, remember?”

Castiel frowns harder. “I don't know. I don't know, Dean.”

“Okay, that's alright. Why don't we see how you feel tomorrow?”

“Okay.” Says Castiel, still looking uneasy and a little defeated.

“Hey, I'm not gonna- gonna carry you kicking and screaming, okay? If you don't feel like you can go, I'm not going to make you.”

“You're not?” Castiel says, in a heartbreaking voice that's equally hopeful and hesitant.

“I'm not.” Dean rubs his hand up and down Castiel's side, “But I think you can do it, and your health is really important. Wouldn't it be great to start eating solid foods?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, we'll see how you feel tomorrow. Don't worry about it.”

“Okay,” Castiel sighs, “Thank you, Dean.”

He ends up taking a stress-nap until it's time to close, but afterward seems much calmer. Still, after supper Dean feels the definite need for a distraction.

“You want to do some witchcraft?” He asks.

Castiel perks up, nodding eagerly with his hands clasped together.

Dean goes to his room and brings back two bundles of dried herbs, sage and lavender tied tightly together. He hands one to Castiel and then goes to open all of the windows in the apartment.

“You're not allergic to smoke, are you?”

“I don't know.” Says Castiel.

“Well, we're going to do some smoke cleansing.” Dean announces, bringing Castiel a bowl from the kitchen to put under his herbs, “What we do is we light these, and we get the smoke _everywhere_ , and it gets rid of all the negative energy.”

“Is there negative energy?” Castiel wonders, looking around like he might spot some under the sofa.

“Sometimes it gets in on accident, and so we do this, and we start fresh! Everything gets nice and clean.”

They move from room to room in a counter-clockwise pattern, fanning and blowing the smoke into every crack and corner, every closet and drawer. Castiel is hesitant at first, but soon becomes so involved with the procedure that he seems to forget himself. He waves the smoke seriously around the rooms, eying it like he's daring that negative energy to show itself.

Dean is surprised that Castiel doesn't cough or sneeze or seem otherwise bothered by the thick smoke filling the apartment by the time they're done. It's nice to do this again, he thinks, and it's even nicer to have company. The smell of sage smoke takes him back to childhood, to early foster homes and to his own first steps into witchcraft. The smoke fills him with an inexplicable sense of calm, and Castiel must feel it too, because after some time he begins to fan the smoke over himself.

“What are you doing?” Dean wonders, coming up beside him in the smoke-filled living room.

“I have a lot of negative energy, I think.” Castiel says solemnly.

Dean has him stand in front of the open window as he slowly fans sage smoke over the boy, from head to toe, one outstretched fingertip to the other. Castiel closes his eyes and lets it wash over him, Dean can see the dark hair on his arms stand up as he gets goosebumps from it. They do this until both herb sticks are completely burnt out and all the smoke has floated out the window. Even after, Castiel stands there for a very long time with eyes closed, and Dean stands for a very long time watching him. It's some sort of moment, certainly, although Dean can't say what kind. Something is definitely happening in Castiel's head, but whether he's having an epiphany or has fallen asleep standing up is yet to be seen.

Eventually, his hands come down and his eyes open, and he looks around with a furrowed brow. He takes a deep breath and says, “Okay.” and then doesn't say another word for the rest of the evening.

 

Miraculously, they make it to the doctor's office. Dean isn't sure they're going to, no matter how big a game he talks, he's still very aware that Castiel is a deeply traumatized individual. Needless to say, he's more than a little surprised when Castiel exits his room early in the morning with a determined look on his face that Dean has not yet seen.

Dean has pulled some of Sam's clothes from his teenage years from the attic, and they'll still be big on Castiel's slight frame but they'll fit him a little better than Dean's do at least. A pair of faded bluejeans, a Legend of Zelda t-shirt, and a pair of sneakers later and he looks almost like a regular kid. Like he should be busy graduating high-school or even starting college. Startlingly normal.

They stand in the doorway to the street for a long time, Castiel taking big breaths and apologizing over and over again until he finally works up the nerve to take the first step out onto the street. It doesn't go great, by the time they walk two blocks Castiel is trembling from head to toe, gripping Dean's arm like his life depends on it. But they make it, and Dean feels relief when they finally step into the practice.

“You did it.” Dean whispers, “We made it.”

Castiel nods in a sharp, jerking motion, but doesn't say anything. His eyes are closed, his fingernails are digging sharp into Dean's flesh.

“I got you.” Dean promises, “We're doing fine.”

Of course, it's harder to convince Castiel when they're in the stark white examination room, with the smell of rubbing alcohol sharp in their noses.

Castiel sits next to Dean in the chairs along the wall, still holding his arm. If they're lucky, this will be over quickly and Dean can get Castiel home where he can take a nap.

Doctor Tran is thin, a little on the short side, and younger than Dean is usually comfortable with his doctor being. But he looks a little like Einstein in that he always appears to have just come out of a wind tunnel, and that's a mark of genius if Dean has ever seen one. When he comes in, Castiel eyes him warily.

“Morning, guys.” He says cheerfully, looking over the chart in his hand, “You must be Castiel. Good to meet you, why don't you hop up here.” He pats the examination table.

“Do I have to?” Castiel asks Dean, very quietly.

“Can he stay over here?” Dean asks.

“Um. I guess so.” Says Doctor Tran. He knows the situation, and he knows that handling trauma survivors can sometimes be a little tricky.

“And, uh, he's having some issues with... touch. So, if there's any way we could keep that to a minimum...?”

To his credit, Tran only hesitates for a moment. “Absolutely.” He says to Castiel, “We can work around it. Maybe Dean can give me a hand?”

So Dean does what he can, lending a hand when Doctor Tran needs one. Things go slowly, but everyone keeps calm and that's what matters. Eventually they finish, and the news is good. Castiel is gaining weight at a good rate, although he's still much too thin, and he's cleared to eat solid foods. He's still got to take all his supplements and other pills, but Doctor Tran seems happy about his physical recovery. He shakes Dean's hand and nods to Castiel, and that's all there is.

Castiel breathes a sigh of relief when they exit the building.

“Not so bad, was it?” Says Dean.

“No.” Says Castiel.

It's still been stressful though, and as soon as they get home Castiel disappears into his room and under the covers.

Dean is doing dishes when Sam shows up, in civvies thank god.

“How's he adjusting?” Sam wonders, leaning back against the kitchen counter and crossing one long leg over the other.

Dean shrugs, “About as well as can be expected.”

“Details?”

Dean sighs, “I don't know, Sam. He's a mess. He's been through a lot of shit, and he's not just gonna get better overnight.”

“I know,” Sam puts his hands up, “I know. I'm not saying he should. I'm just... I guess I'm wondering, in your opinion, do you think he'll ever be able to, you know, reintegrate into society?”

“I'm not an expert.”

“In your inexpert opinion.”

“... I think so. He's a survivor, and I think he'll pull through, but it's gonna take a while.”

Sam nods, thoughtfully, “You remember when we got out of Mires Grove?”

“I try not to.”

“I didn't know what ice cream was.”

“ _That's_ what you're focusing on?”

“What would you rather me focus on?”

“Good point.” Dean looks up at the ceiling, willing away the darkness of his childhood, “You want to stay for dinner?”

 

Pamela Barnes, psychologist and scrabble aficionado, has agreed to see Castiel in the comfort of Dean's living room instead of her office across town. It's an incredible convenience that Dean is endlessly grateful for and the town is paying for. Pamela might have done it for free though, for such an interesting case. Her immaculately painted fingernails tap on the wooden top of Dean's kitchen table.

“Do you think it's going well?” She asks Dean.

“I think it's going okay.” Dean frowns, “Don't you want to ask him?”

“I'll talk to him about this too, but first I want your opinion.” She glances toward the hall, and toward Castiel's room where he'd hiding until it's time for Pam to talk to him.

“Well, yeah. I think it's going good.”

“Have you noticed any self harm or suicidal inclinations?”

“No. Do you think he'll try and kill himself?” A cold shock rolls through Dean's body. That's not something he's considered.

“I just think he's been through a very traumatic ordeal and you should keep an eye out. I'm not trying to scare you, Dean, I just want to make sure he's doing as well as he can.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

She looks down at her notes, “How does he feel about physical contact?”

“I mean, he's usually okay if I telegraph my movements. Doesn't like to be touched by surprise though, and doesn't like to be touched by strangers.”

“Of course. Does he initiate physical contact?”

“Sometimes when he's scared he'll, like, grab my arm.”

For this, he gets a smile. “That's good. He probably trusts you, which is surprising for such a short amount of time, but it's good news. I was worried he'd be much more closed off.”

Dean shakes his head. “Closed off? Nah. Pretty emotional, from what i've seen. Massive amounts of anxiety though.”

“That's expected. Do you have any house rules?”

“What, like, “shoes off by the door”?”

“Something like that.”  
  
“Not really, why?”

“Sometimes it helps to have clear limits.”

“It's an apartment, not a prison.” Dean snaps.

“That's not at all what I'm saying, Dean.” Pamela tells him, firmly, “What I'm saying is, victims of abuse regularly feel anxiety about making others angry. _Sometimes_ it helps for them to know what might someone angry. Get it?”

“I think so?”

“Some people find comfort in rules. You don't have to, it's your house, this is just a suggestion. Another thing I _am_ worried about is skin hunger.”

“What the hell is that?”

“That absence of touch can have severe physiological effects, and I doubt abuse counts as "physical touch". I'm glad he's initiating contact, but, if he's amenable, I’d like you to do something like hug him once a day. It's doesn't have to be that. I'll talk to him about it as well, but I thought I'd run it by you now. People who are touch starved are at an increased risk for depression and physiological ailments, and we want him as healthy as he can be.”

“True. He did almost let me hug him the other day.”

“That's a good start. Like I said, I’ll talk to him about this too and see how he feels about it.”

“Okay.”

“Does he get outside much? Is he getting any kind of exercise?”

“No. He gets really anxious about going outside.”  
  
“If you can get him outside for a little bit each day that would be great, you could try taking a walk or something. If you can't, still try and get him to exercise. Something light, some stretches, maybe.”

“I mean, I’ll try, but I don't think I'm gonna get him out of the house. Is there something else that I could do?”

“I think some kind of hobby would be beneficial.”

“What would you suggest?”  
  
“Anything he wants to do. Really anything occupies the mind. Goals are really important too. So as soon as you think he's ready, and I realize that might be a while, he should start, say, trying to get a job. Or a bank account, independence is very important. Maybe even his GED.”

“You think I should make him get a job?” Dean asks incredulously.

“Eventually. Just to give him a sense of freedom, earning his own money and everything.”

It sounds ridiculous, but Dean can see where she's coming from. “Okay, I guess.”

Castiel is hesitant to speak to her with Dean out of sight, so Dean sits in the living room while they talk in the kitchen. He has the television on and devotes all of his attention to it, not wanting to disturb their privacy. He trusts Pamela, he's known her since high-school, but it makes Castiel feel better if he's in eyesight.

Dean's eyes flit to the kitchen table from time to time, where Pamela is leaning forward attentively, asking questions and writing things in her notebook. Castiel has his arms crossed, clasping both elbows. He's frowning, but that doesn't mean much at all.

Pamela gives Castiel her business card before she leaves and tells him that she'd like to talk to him again next week. He seems less than enthused, but he does agree.

When she finally leaves, he slumps onto the couch next to Dean.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods. “That was a lot of questions.”

“You need to lay down?”

Castiel shakes his head, but he's frowning at his hands.

“What's up?”

Dean has found that he has to give Castiel time to gather his thoughts. Sometimes, it takes a good while. Sometimes he thinks at first that Castiel is ignoring him. He never is, and Dean is learning to wait.

“She said... she said we should hug.”

“Okay.”

“Every day.”

“Are you okay with that?”

Castiel thinks. “Yes. Can I- can we, um-” He spreads his fingers out in front of him in what looks like an aborted motion, but Dean can't figure out what it was supposed to be. Nevertheless, he thinks he knows what Castiel is trying to say.

“You want to hug now?”

“Yes.” Castiel sighs, relieved, “If you want. It's okay if-”

“Come on,” Dean opens his arms, if he's being honest, he doesn't really hug many people anymore and maybe it's affecting him a little bit too. He'll never admit it, but he almost misses when Sam lived with him, when there was someone else to share his space with. Dean is a man who doesn't do well alone for long periods of time.

Castiel scoots over cautiously and tucks himself into Dean's open arms, tensing slightly when they close around him.

“Still okay?” Dean checks.

“Yes.” Says Castiel, his breath warm through the fabric of Dean's shirt. After a while he relaxes, and Dean pats him carefully on the back. He's so slight that Dean can feel the bones of his shoulders through the back of his shirt. The thought of it makes him sick to his stomach, of Castiel down in some dark basement with nothing to eat, no one to be kind to him.

“You know, I like having you here.” He says, quite suddenly, surprising them both.

Castiel pulls back a little to look him incredulously in the face, “You do?”

“Yeah, I do. It's good to have somebody cool to hang out with.”

“I'm not cool.” Castiel protests, he starts to pull away, but Dean can the upset in his eyes and tugs him back down into the hug.

“Maybe you just don't know what cool is.”

Castiel huffs, “Then how could I be cool?”

“The coolest people never know they're cool.”

Castiel huffs, finally managing to pull himself away, “That doesn't make any sense.”

Dean reaches out once more to tickles Castiel's side and is absolutely delighted when Castiel slaps his hand. Of course, Castiel immediately starts to panic.

“I'm so sorry!” He says, both hands coming to his stomach, “I'm sorry.”

“No, no, it's okay!” Dean tells him quickly, “It's alright, I’m not angry.”

Castiel says nothing, but closes his eyes and ducks his head.

“Hey, I promise. I'm not upset. That's my fault for tickling you, I know you don't like to be touched by surprise. I forgot for a second.”

Castiel puts a palm to his forehead, “I shouldn't have slapped you.”

“Hey, you're okay. It's just fine. Somebody touches you when they know you don't want to be touched, they deserve it.”

Castiel slumps back against the couch, still looking worried and sorrowful. “I knew you weren't trying to hurt me. I just panicked.”

“Cas,” Dean reaches out, slowly, and puts his hand on Castiel's elbow, “You don't have to apologize for defending yourself.”

“You weren't hurting me.”

“So you reacted, so what? I'm fine.”

Castiel chews worriedly on his bottom lip, he's picking at his cuticles again. Dean sees blood and remembers what Pamela said about self harm.

“You want to learn some stuff about herbs?” He asks, suddenly desperate to get Castiel's mind out of whatever dark place its gone to.

“Okay,” Says Castiel, ever amenable. Always agreeable. It's a symptom of abuse that Dean has seen before, even experienced himself. Never wanting to make anyone else unhappy by saying no, disagreeing, having an opinion. It'll fade in time, Dean knows, all he can do is make sure Castiel feels safe enough to speak his mind.

Dean stands up and stretches, then holds his hand out to Castiel.

“Come on, we're gonna learn some shit.”

 

Castiel meets Charlie because, as is her way, Charlie decides to bust into his apartment without knocking.

It's evening, the store is closed for the night, and Castiel and Dean have just settled down to watch some television after dinner. Castiel is really into Planet Earth and, well, Dean likes it pretty well too. Things are calm and quiet and then, very suddenly, the front door opens and there's Charlie.

She zeroes immediately in on Dean. “You've been avoiding me!” She accuses.

Castiel starts, gasping and grabbing a tight hold of Dean's forearm. The movement draws Charlie's eye and she blinks.

“Oh,” She says, and then, “Wait, what?”

“Charlie,” Dean says, “This is Castiel. Cas, Charlie lives next door.”

“Hey,” Says Charlie, shifting from foot to foot and looking highly uncomfortable, “Uh. I guess I'll come back? After you're done with... whatever you're doing?”

Dean motions for her to come in instead. “Castiel is staying with me, he'll be here for a while.”

“Oh, whoa.” Charlie comes in and sits down on the couch on the other side of Castiel, who shies away as inconspicuously as he can, “Living together?”

“It's not-” Dean tries to explain, “He's a friend.” He wants to tell her the story, but it's not his to tell. He doesn't want to make Castiel uncomfortable.

“Well, hi.” Says Charlie, extending her hand.

Castiel takes it and gives it a quick shake before drawing back.

“Is this why you've been avoiding me?” Charlie asks, “And don't say you haven’t been, because I know you have.”

“Cas just needs some time to settle in. I thought he might like to get comfortable before I brought in your... big personality.”

Charlie gasps and puts her hand over her heart in mock offense, “I cannot _believe_ you.” She says, “I have the smallest personality of anyone I’ve ever met.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “Sorry for avoiding you.”

She pretends to think for a minute before accepting his apologies with a grin, “It's okay. Gilda's the one who's _really_ upset. But she'll forgive you when she meets this cutie. How old are you, anyway?” The last question is directed at Castiel, who shrinks away.

“Eighteen.” He says.

Charlie whistles, “Wow. Do I feel old, or what? Do you know who Micheal Jackson is? Actually, don't answer that. This girl came into the shop the other day and she _actually_ didn't know who he was. _That's_ the oldest I’ve ever felt. You got any popcorn? Actually, you know what, I’m making you brownies. This kid is _way_ too skinny. Do you have eggs?” She doesn't wait for an answer, already halfway to the kitchen doorway.

Castiel looks at Dean with wide, shell shocked eyes.

“She grows on you.” Dean assures him.

“Okay.” Castiel says, looking unconvinced.

Gilda shows up forty-five minutes later looking for her wife. She's much calmer, quieter, and generally easier to get used to. She has a sweet smile and a kind voice that seems to instantly put Castiel at ease. He doesn't even flinch when she reaches over and squeezes his hand. Her long purple nails look strange against his pale skin, and when she smiles at him it's a little sad.

“Oh, sweetheart.” She says, “We have to get you something else to wear.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly so confused about why this already has like 80 kudos when i've only posted one chapter. What brought you all here? What caught your interest?  
> Also, thank you so much for reading! I'm so excited to share this story with you!
> 
> Comments keep me alive and writing, sending positive energy to each and every one of you. I hope you all have a wonderful day.  
> love,  
> Grace


	3. Spinach Tortellini Soup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean, Charlie and Gilda are all probably mid to late twenties, by the way. Sam is mid twenties, he's a very young sheriff.
> 
>  
> 
>  **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:**  
>  \- very brief mention of someone's suicide  
> \- very brief mention of rape  
> \- brief self harm, not detailed (for description see bottom notes)  
> \- brief, vague description of pee (for details see bottom notes)

In what must constitute some sort of minor miracle, Castiel is letting Gilda take his measurements. Her hands, long-fingered and sure, hold a measuring tape this way and that. He lets her measure his waist and inseam without any fuss whatsoever. Dean feels slightly hurt for a moment, that Castiel is more comfortable with a women he's just met than he is with Dean. But then, Dean reminds himself, it's not about him. He doesn't know what all Castiel has been through, and he suspects that men have hurt him in different ways than women have. Castiel can't help it that men make him more nervous then women do.

Dean takes a deep breath, buries that slight sting of hurt, and determines to have Charlie and Gilda over more often. Bonding with other people is important, Dean remembers from his own early days of freedom. Making friends, making connections, can be the difference between recovery and deterioration. Gilda has a soft, soothing voice and always smells like she's just been walking in slow motion through a sun-dappled forest, it's no wonder Castiel is drawn to her. In contrast, he keeps his distance from Charlie. He shrinks from her as if her very energy might hurt him.

When Dean retreats into the kitchen to make a pot of tea, he's unsurprised to have Charlie trail him in.

“What's up with him?” She says, voice low. If they talk quietly, they probably won't be overheard, but it's a small apartment.

“What do you mean?” Dean asks. It's not that he's avoiding the question, exactly, it's just that he's not sure what exactly Charlie is having a problem with.

“He seems... scared of me. Like, okay, I know I can be a little much sometimes, but he seems _actually_ scared.”

Dean turns on the stove burner and rubs the stubble on his chin. “He's... he's been through a lot of stuff. Like, some _shit_. Really bad stuff. It's not my place to tell you, but I promise it's not _you_. He's scared of most things right now. You're just a little loud sometimes.”

Charlie frowns and turns to look back through the kitchen archway to where Gilda is chattering softly to Castiel, who looks surprisingly content.

“I guess that makes sense.” Says Charlie, “I _am_ loud sometimes, and Gilda is like, the calmest person alive.”

“She's like if a cloud were a person.”

Charlie snorts, looking fondly into the living room. After a moment, her expression grows solemn again. “What kind of shit?”

“It's not my trauma to share.”

“Kid looks like he hasn’t had a decent meal in his life.”

“That's very likely.”

Charlie frowns at him and eyes the kitchen table where Castiel's medley of medicines sit. “Those are his?”

“Yeah.”

She shakes her head. “How'd you end up involved.”

Dean shrugs, “My brother the damn sheriff.”

“How _is_ Sam?”

“Works too hard. Needs to get laid.”

“I'd offer to set him up, but I only know lesbians.”

“It's the thought that counts, I guess?”

“Sure.”

The oven gives an unhappy chirp, announcing brownies, and Charlie stretches.

“You got any icing or are we eating these plain?”

Dean sputters, “ _Icing_? Who puts icing on brownies?”

“What, are we supposed to let them go naked? Are we barbarians?”

“Why am I friends with you?”

“Because I bake you things all the time.”  
  
“And then _ruin_ them.”

“Gilda!” Charlie calls, “Come here and tell this idiot that he's an idiot.”

“I'm not getting involved.” Comes Gilda's soft voice from the living room.

Charlie sighs, “Yeah, that's probably for the best.”

Dean puts two brownies on a plate and takes it back into the living room where Gilda is still fawning over Castiel, who is absolutely eating it up. Sitting side-by-side, they look very soft. Castiel has a very small, tentative smile on his lips. It's a good look, and it lifts something inside Dean.

“You want a brownie?” He asks, holding the plate out.

Castiel squints at it, curious, and takes one gingerly in his hand.

“I've never had one.” He admits, softly, “What does it taste like?”

Gilda and Charlie look at each other in confusion, then to Dean.

“ _What_ have you been feeding this child?” Asks Charlie.

“Hey, he hasn't been with me that long, okay. And he only just got cleared for solid foods, so.”

Castiel munches carefully on the corner of his brownie, and Dean tries not to look like this is a huge deal, but it's kind of a huge deal.

His nose scrunches, he chews, he nods. “It's good.” He says.

The room lets out a collective sigh of relief. He likes sweets, thank god.

“Have you had cake?” Charlie wonders.

Castiel shakes his head.

“Pie?”

“No.”

“What kinds of pastries _have_ you had?”

Castiel just frowns at her, and she collapses on the couch in exasperation. “This is a tragedy. This is the worst thing that's ever happened. I'm going to go down and get one of _every_ pastry we have!”

“No way,” Dean says before she can even get up, “He's not used to sweets, it'll just upset his stomach.”

Charlie looks at him like he's just committed infanticide. “He _needs to know!_ ” She insists.

“One a day.” Says Dean.

“You _monster_!” Says Charlie.

“I'm serious, Charlie. I don't want Cas getting sick just because you think everyone should live off sugar.”

Charlie glares at him, but eventually she closes her eyes and takes a breath. “Fine.” She says, “I can do this. It'll be a good challenge for me.”

Dean looks to Gilda, but she just smiles and shrugs, no help at all.

Castiel finishes his brownie in record time, leaving a scattering of crumbs on his lips and lap. “Can I have another one?” He asks Dean, very softly, as if he's afraid saying it too loudly will spark some unknown rage in the room.

He should say no, really, he's just told Charlie that Castiel shouldn't eat too many sweets. But then, Dean knows before he even begins to think about it that he'll say yes, of course, whatever you want. Castiel's big blue eyes are so hopeful, but also afraid, and Dean feels the horrible, overwhelming urge to find whoever made him feel so afraid to ask for more food and make sure they never draw another breath. Castiel can have whatever he wants.

“Sure.” He says.

 

The next day Gilda makes an appearance in the shop. She coaxes Castiel out of the backroom, to the front counter. She hops up to sit on top of it and swing her feet.

“That's really not made for human weight.” Says Dean.

“Oh hush, you.” She counters, turning her attention to Castiel, “I was thinking of going shopping today. Do you want to come? We can get you some new clothes.”

Castiel who has, up to this point, seemed alright, blanches. “I- I don't know.” He says, looking at Dean with a panic-stricken expression.

Gilda looks at Castiel with a furrowed brow. “It's alright if you don't want to.” She says, “But I thought you might like to.”

Castiel looks down at his hands, clasped together in front of his stomach, Dean watches his chest as he begins to breathe faster. “I- I can't-”

“He's helping me inventory today.” Dean cuts in, “Pretty important. Can't do it by myself.”

Castiel looks at him, and the relief in his eyes is almost a palpable thing.

He nods. “Inventory.”

Gilda knows something's wrong, she's not stupid. She is, however, extremely empathetic, and realizes that the situation is delicate.

“Alright.” She says lightly, “Well, maybe I'll pick you up something anyway. I'll see you boys later, okay? Keep an eye on Charlie for me.”

She hops down from the counter and goes gracefully out of the store before anything else can be said.

To Dean's surprise, Castiel lets out a small whimper and, instead of retreating to the backroom, goes to Dean. Dean opens his arms and lets Castiel tuck himself into the welcoming warmth of Dean's body. His head is on Dean's shoulder, and the small wetness there is unmistakable.

“Hey, it's okay.” Dean says, running his hand up Castiel's back.

Castiel shakes his head and, very faintly, Dean hears him sniffle. Then, a sigh, “I really wanted to go.” Comes a very small voice, full of tears and sorrow.

“I know.” Says Dean, “I know.

“I'm sorry.” Castiel whispers.

“We'll work on it.” Dean promises, “It's okay. You don't need.... to be okay all at once. You're already doing so much better. We'll work on it together, okay? And maybe Pam can help.”

Castiel says nothing more, but stays in Dean's embrace until the little bell above the door chimes, announcing customers, at which point he quickly retreats into the back, wiping his eyes.

Neither of them bring it up again, but as an occurrence it seems, to Dean, like a big step. Castiel hugged him, and told him why he was upset with no prompting at all. Is he horrid for putting a silver lining on Castiel's pain? But the amount of improvement he's already seen in Castiel is enough to chase that thought from his mind. Maybe the boy isn't ready to go outside for a long time yet, but the receptiveness he's shown to new ideas and feelings, the progress he's made personally, especially after all he's been through, absolutely astounds Dean. He feels, in his heart, that Castiel has enormous potential for change, but he dares not speak his hopes in case they overwhelm Castiel.

Evening signals the close of Dean's store and Charlie's as well, and she meets them at the top of the stairs to the apartments.

She's holding an entire cake.

“Uh, what's that?” Dean asks, while Castiel peers at it curiously.

“It's a cake.” Charlie says, unhelpfully.

They stand motionless in the hall for several long moments before Charlie narrows her eyes at Dean and asks, “Are you going to let me into your apartment?”

“I wasn't planning on it, no.”

“Come _on_.” Charlie pleads, “I have to get this into a freezer fast or it'll melt!”

Despite his reservations, Dean unlocks his door and ushers her in. “The cake will melt?”

“It's an ice cream cake.” She announces on her way to the kitchen.

Castiel looks curiously at Dean, who shrugs, “Fuck if I know.”

So far, Castiel has not warmed up to Charlie much, but the Mint Chocolate Chip Brownie Ice Cream Cake definitely seems like a bribe. An effective one at that. Castiel wolfs down the first slice furiously and then turns his big puppy-dog eyes on Dean, who really can't be blamed for folding immediately and telling Castiel to eat however much he wants. Dean tells himself that this is because Castiel is an adult who can make his own decisions, but he knows it's really because he can't deny this kid anything. He's been denied everything his whole life, and who is Dean to stand in the way of his freedom now?

Castiel easily eats a third of the cake, and then his stomach gets very upset, for which Dean does feel guilty. He curls up on the couch though and doesn't protest when Dean and Charlie sit next to him, so he must be mostly alright.

Gilda doesn't show up until much later, once the sun has set and the rest of them are already in the middle of a Netflix movie marathon. She knocks at least, because she wasn't raised by wolves, unlike her wife. She has an armload of shopping bags that she sets down in front of Castiel.

“I picked you up a couple of things, dear, I hope you don't mind.”

A blush rises on Castiel's cheeks, and he looks a cross between elated and mortified.

“Thank you,” He says quietly.

She doesn't make him try them on like Dean fears, but settles down with the three of them on the couch. Castiel tenses up, squeezed uncomfortably between Dean and Charlie, so Dean gets blankets from his room to make himself a little nest on the floor. As soon as he's settled, though, here comes Castiel to sit happily beside him on the floor.

When Dean leans over to quietly ask him, “Doin' okay?” Castiel nods and gives a small smile. He still looks tense, but his hands are still in his lap and his eyes are trained on the television. Dean reaches over to pat him on the back, and is rewarded when Castiel leans toward him a little in an unconscious yearning for more contact.

 

Castiel makes good progress for about two weeks. Things are looking up, Dean thinks, which is why he's surprised when the boy's mood takes a sharp turn downward. He doesn't quite realize it's happening at first, when Castiel declines to join him for their usual midnight movie Dean assumes he's just tired.

It's different though, he's not _just_ jittery. Instead of continuing the upward progress, he retreats inside himself. He doesn't talk, he stops eating the treats Charlie has been bringing him, he doesn't make eye contact. The shadows under his eyes grow darker, and Dean decides to talk to Pamela. She's still been seeing Castiel once a week, but maybe it's not enough.

He calls her in the morning while Castiel is still sleeping, and is surprised by what she says.

“He doesn't talk to me.”

“What?” Dean leans back against the counter and furrows his brow, “What do you mean? You guys talk for like an hour a week.”

“I talk. He... directly answers questions I ask. He doesn't elaborate, he doesn't open up. Sometimes these things take time.”

“What if we don't have that kind of time?”

“What are you implying?” She asks sharply.

“Nothing, nothing.” Dean sighs, rubbing at his furrowed brow with the tips of his fingers, “I just- I want to be able to help. I want to make him feel... _better_. I guess. But I don't know how. He was doing better and now he's not and I just- I don't get it.”

“I'm not sure what to tell you Dean.” Pam admits, and Dean can hear the weariness in her voice, “Talk to him. Be patient.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“Look, I know it sucks. I know you want to help him, and I know you hate feeling useless, but there's not always anything you can do.”

“What if there is, though? What if there's something I could do and I'm not doing it?”  
  
There's a long, thoughtful pause, “If you feel like you should do something, then do something.”

Dean frowns down at his toes, peeking out from beneath the edge of soft pajama bottoms. “Yeah. Thanks Pam. I'm sorry for waking you up.”

“No, it's fine. I needed to get up anyway.”

“I'll talk to you later.”

“Bye, Dean.”

So he hangs up, and he stands there in the kitchen, half lit by the early morning light, turning his phone over and over in his hands. There's a tightening in his chest, a spark of panic that pulls at the muscles of his heart. It's difficult to adjust to a new life, and Dean knows that better than anybody. Yeah, him and Sam made it out alright, Sam even did great. They were younger though, with smarter caregivers and a lot less abuse. Still, he remembers that not all the kids from Mires Grove adjusted. He remembers Ruby Rowe; her downward spiral, her drug abuse, her eventual suicide. Was there anything that could have been done? Was it just too late before anyone realized how badly she was really doing?

That can't happen with Castiel, it _can't_. He's a good kid, with a good heart who needs _love_ and a _home_. The thing is, Dean realizes how much higher the odds are for Castiel to go off like Ruby, with everything he's been through and all the things he needs that maybe Dean can't give him. Dean's not smart like Sam or Pamela, he's just a guy doing his best, and what if his best isn't good enough?

He can't stop thinking about it, turning it over in his head until the _what if_ 's fill him up and he can't stand it anymore. So it shouldn't be surprising, really, that Castiel finds him crying in the kitchen forty-five minutes later.

“Dean?” Comes the quiet, sleep husky voice. Castiel stands in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes wide with worry.

“Fuck,” Dean wipes his eyes hurriedly with the heel of his hand, but it's too late, Castiel has seen it and the damage is done. He sniffs and glances at the clock on the microwave, realizing it's much later than he thought. “Shit, I didn't get breakfast started.” He hates the way his voice wavers. _Hates_ it. It's always been this way, since he was a kid, always letting his emotions get the best of him.

“I'll make it.” Castiel says quickly, still looking worried and wary. He steps into the kitchen slowly, bare feet sliding silently on the cool tiles. His hands are up at his chest, and he hesitates when Dean moves.

“No, you don't have to. I- I'm just having a bad morning, I'm fine.”

“It's okay.” Says Castiel, too quickly again, “I'll make it. Don't worry, I'll make it.”

“Hey,” Dean sighs, willing himself to relax, “You don't have to worry about me freaking out. I'm not- just because I'm having a hard time doesn't mean I'm going to take it out on you. Okay?”

Castiel nods, slowly, but looks unconvinced. His hands are clasped in front of his stomach.

Dean reaches toward him and is surprised at how much it stings when the boy moves out of his reach.

“I promise.” Dean says again, voice quiet, “You don't have to be afraid of me.”

Castiel purses his lips and nods, “I know.” He whispers.

They stand there facing one another in the silent kitchen, and Dean thinks for a moment that Sam was wrong to place Castiel here. Maybe Dean isn't someone who can do this job, fix Castiel up. But then, he closes his eyes and remembers how it felt to be young and alone. He hadn't needed _fixing_ , exactly, but someone willing to give him the tools to fix himself.

Maybe Dean doesn't know what he's doing, but he'll have to make it work.

“We're a mess, huh?” Dean gives a dry laugh, but it falls flat before it even leaves his mouth.

Castiel looks down at his hands. “Is- is there something I can do?”

Dean shakes his head, “You relax, I'm going to start eggs.”

Dean turns to the refrigerator, and when he closes it moments later, he finds Castiel right there, quite nearer than he was before. Dean forgets sometimes that Castiel is just about the same height as he is, because the boy slouches and his demeanor makes him seem smaller, but here he is now looking so serious. He reaches out and touches Dean's elbow very quickly, as if he knows physical touch is supposed to be reassuring but isn't at all sure how to do it.

“I'd like to help.” He says.

There's a heartbeat between them, a moment when Dean sees Castiel as a regular, healthy person who just wants to help. For a moment, the light hits him odd and he has a halo, his eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheeks. Why is it so difficult to breathe?  
  
“Okay.” Dean says, clears his throat, “Yeah. You, um, know how to cook bacon?”

“Yes.” Says Castiel.

They cook breakfast side by side. Dean, thoughtfully; Castiel, efficiently. There's a camaraderie about it that soothes something inside of Dean, but it doesn't last. As soon as they sit down to eat Castiel is silent again, frowning at his food like it has done something terribly offensive.

“The bacon's good.” Dean mumbles, chewing slowly.

“Thanks.” Says Castiel.

This goes on, and by the time they're ready to go down to the shop, Dean doesn't think he can stand it anymore.

“Maybe we shouldn't open the shop today.”

Castiel squints at him, “Why?”

“I don't know.” Dean admits, “Are you feeling okay? Maybe you'd feel better if you just relaxed today.”

“I relax in the shop too.” Castiel points out.

“Yeah, but, maybe you should just take it easy.”

“I'm fine, Dean.”

“You don't seem fine.” Dean blurts. It's much more blunt than he'd meant to say it, but he's panicking. He can't let Cas slip away. He can't let him self destruct.

Castiel stares at him, he blinks. “I am.” He says very softly.

“You can trust me.” Dean can hear the pleading in his own voice, but he can't bring himself to be ashamed of it, not if it works, “If there's something you need, just ask. If there's something I should be doing- anything, I’ll do it. Your recovery is important to me. _You're_ important to me.”

“Why?” Castiel wonders.

“Because...” Dean pauses to think, “You're _good_ , and you don't deserve the things that happened to you. You deserve another chance, and I want to help you get it. And I enjoy having you around, you're... kind. And I'm looking forward to getting to know you better.”

“So...”

“So I want to know if you need something, or if I’m doing something wrong. We're... friends, aren't we? You don't have to be afraid to tell me things, or ask me for things.”

“Friends?” Says Castiel, as if trying to fit the word into his mouth.

“Yeah. We're friends.”

Castiel opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks like he's gearing up to speak, so Dean says nothing. He waits while Castiel furrows his brow once again, chews his bottom lip, and finally speaks.

“What... what's my _purpose_ , Dean?”

Dean looks at him, taken aback. He seems so, so serious. “What?”

“My _purpose_. Even before, I had a _reason_. I was a sacrifice, and until then I cleaned and cooked and- and did what needed to be done. And now I- I don't know. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I want to be of use.”

Dean remembers, belatedly, what Pamela told him that first week, about _goals_ and _chores_. There's still a part of him that feels stung by the fact that Castiel felt better about his purpose in a _murderous cult_ than here where he's safe, but his feelings are not Castiel's.

“Okay, okay. So you, what, want something to do? I just- I don't want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you. I don't want to remind you of _them_.”

Castiel shakes his head, “I don't mind housework. You keep things so clean anyway, I'm sure it would be easy. And, I mean, the couplings weren't _always_ bad. Sometimes the Brothers were nicer to me, after.”

Dean finds himself fighting against his feelings, against that anger and disgust in his gut. He doesn't want to hear about those monsters _raping_ Castiel, but he also can't say _don't talk about it._ Castiel should be able to talk to him about anything, even if he doesn't want to hear it.

Even so, he can't help himself saying, “You know that what they did was _wrong_ , don't you?”

A color rises in the boy's cheeks, and he ducks his head in a nod. “Yes. I know. I- I didn't _like_ it, it... hurt.” Here he winces at the memory, “But I guess I just- I've been trying to look on the bright side for so long...”

“Yeah. I get it.” Well, he doesn't really, but he sort of understands what Castiel is trying to say, “But I'm not like them. You know that, right?”

“I know, Dean.”

Dean sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, “Alright, maybe we can make a chore chart for the two of us or something. How's that sound?”

“Okay.”

It's not really a solution and Dean knows it. If Castiel wants _meaning_ he isn't very well going to be satisfied by a few chores around the house.

 

“Would you want to help me around the store?” Dean asks, much later. He's leaning against the counter of Winchester Supply, and Castiel is peeking out the doorway to the backroom.

Castiel hesitates for a moment, but then, “What would I do?”

Dean shrugs, “You could help me take inventory. You could help me test things out?”

Castiel tilts his head against the doorway in a movement that Dean finds particularly birdlike. “Test things?”

“Yeah, sure.” Dean glances around and, on a whim, pulls a tarot deck from one of the shelves. He opens the box and spreads the cards across the counter. He has no actual intention of putting them back on the shelf, but the thought occurs to him that they'll keep Castiel's mind occupied.

Sure enough, Castiel's eyes are bright as he tiptoes over to the counter and looks down at the cards curiously. He reaches out and skims the pads of his long fingers across the edges.

“What do they mean?”

“Oh, all sorts of things.” Dean tells him, going back to the shelf to pluck a Tarot For Beginners off the rack. “Tarot is one of the easiest ways of looking into the future.”

He sets the book down next to the cards, and Castiel looks up at him, “The future?”

“Sure,” Says Dean, “It's easy.”

“Can you- I mean-”

“Want me to show you?”

Castiel nods eagerly, and there's that spark of life again. The light is back in Castiel's eyes, and Dean's soul breathes a sigh of relief. This, he can do.

“So, tarot cards have two main types, the Major Arcana and the Minor Arcana. The Major represents the big events in our lives, and the Minor represents all the everyday stuff.”

Castiel pulls a stool over to settle in as Dean explains to him how the cards work. After this, they work on shuffling, something Castiel's dexterous fingers pick up easily, to his delight. He's fascinated by the pictures, tracing his fingertips over each one. Dean doesn't blame him, this particular tarot deck is very beautiful, all flowing lines and silvery bright colors. Castiel is so entranced that several customers come and go, and he doesn't even hide in the back. He lays them out in front of himself, reading their meanings in the book one by one until he's gone through them all. Then, of course, he starts going through the spreads that the book recommends and doing them for himself.

“So whats your future hold?” Dean asks.

Castiel looks up, blinking as if he'd forgotten where he was. “Oh, I’m just playing around.” He says after a while, “I don't know what I'm doing.”

“Well that's the first step.” Dean grins, “Gotta learn somehow. What do you want for lunch?”

Castiel is astonished, “It's lunchtime already?” He asks, looking around and noticing several customers for the first time.

“Sure is.” Dean tosses the menu for the deli to Castiel, who eyes the customers cautiously for several more moments before looking at the menu.

Castiel gets Roasted Cauliflower Soup, while Dean decides on a sandwich, and they eat their food sitting side by side at the counter. Castiel sits close, and Dean lets his arm press up against Castiel's. He wonders if it's socially acceptable to hold a friend's hand, figures it's probably not, and then spends the next ten minutes wondering why. Why shouldn't one friend hold another's hand if they need it? What's the big deal about it?

“Are you alright, Dean?” Castiel wonders, swallowing a spoonful of his soup.

“Yeah, yeah. Just thinking.”

Castiel sets down his spoon and rubs his hands on the knees of his jeans. They're a pair that Gilda picked up for him, dark and new and well-fitted. “We're friends?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask you... what you're think about?”

He looks so earnest that Dean can't help smiling, even if the subject matter is a little touchy. Or maybe it's not, Dean really can't decide. “Ah, physical displays of affection.”

Castiel quirks an eyebrow, curious.

“Just wondering why some forms of affection are alright and some aren't.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for instance, I could pat you on the back.” He pats the top of Castiel's back in illustration, “Or I could put my arm around you.” He does, and gives a little squeeze, which has Castiel smiling, “But it would be weird if I held your hand.”

“Why?”

“Because we're not “together”. Doesn't really make sense, does it?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I'd say the hand is less intimate than the back.”

“Hmm.”

Castiel eyes Dean's hand, looks up at his face, then back at his hand. Slowly, carefully, he reaches out and presses his fingers to Dean's knuckles.

“Seems okay to me.” He muses.

Dean waits a moment before he flips his hand over, so that they're palm to palm. It's nice, the warmth of another person's hand on his, Castiel's soft fingers. His own middle finger traces the underside of Castiel's wrist, and the pulse he finds there.

“I like this.” Castiel says after a while, but quietly, sincerely.

“Yeah. It's good, isn't it?”

“Yes.” Says Castiel. He traces the lines on Dean's palm gently with his pointer finger. Fate line, head line, heart line, life line. Dean watches him, unable to keep from holding his breath in anticipation, but of what he's not sure.

Maybe it's Castiel's gentleness that's making this feel oddly intimate, Dean thinks, if he were less reverent this wouldn't seem like such a big deal. But here Dean is, getting butterflies because a boy is touching his hand. What a thought.

He takes a breath to clear his head but instead finds himself with a nose full of whatever shampoo Castiel has been using. Something herby, spicy. Something that makes Dean want to lean over and press his nose to Castiel's temple.

Dean pulls back and clears his throat, forcing a smile onto his face as Castiel looks up at him, confused.

“Gotta throw my trash away.” Is the excuse he makes to grab his takeout container and toss it in the can at the end of the counter. He washes his hands, he straightens some of the racks, and when he comes back Castiel is absorbed in the tarot cards once again.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. He can't have feelings like that toward Castiel, it isn't right. He's a good, sweet kid, and yeah he's cute, but he's been through way too much for someone like Dean to be crushing on him right now, and that's all this is. They're living in close proximity to each other, and sometimes feelings develop, but Dean has nothing but contempt for everyone who has taken advantage of Castiel, and he'd be just like them if he did anything about these feelings.

Thankfully Castiel stays wrapped up in the cards until Gilda shows up with a lemon blueberry cheesecake, which demands the rest of his attention. He has much to say about the lemon, and the blueberry turns his lips a sweet shade of purple.

“Oh, honey.” Gilda says, “What are we going to do with you?”

Castiel smiles at her, all purple lips and teeth, and sweet dimples, and Dean thinks for a moment that his heart skips. He hasn't seen Castiel smile like that before, so unreserved, and it breaks his heart for reasons he can't really articulate.

He turns his gaze to Gilda, who looks back at him, and he would almost swear for a second that she knows. She knows how he feels in the secret heart of him. Well, maybe she does. She's the most empathetic person Dean knows, and it wouldn't really surprise him. The thought stills his blood, but he reminds himself to breathe again. It's Gilda, if anyone can be trusted, it's her.

The girls don't come over to the apartment for supper, so it's just Dean and Cas and a pot of macaroni and cheese.

“Do you think we could read?” Castiel asks afterward, “We haven’t done that in a few days.”

“Hell yeah, what do you want to read?”

It's horror this time, The Strain, although Dean tries to talk Castiel out of it. They settle in on the couch and Dean reads aloud until Castiel's eyes begin to drift shut, and he slides slowly over until his head rests on Dean's shoulder.

“Cas,” Dean says, “Wake up.”

Castiel snorts and jerks upright, blinking rapidly, “Wasn't asleep.” He lies.

“Sure you weren't.” Dean tucks a bookmark into their place and stands up to stretch, “Can you walk?”

Castiel nods, and Dean remembers momentarily the first day he brought Castiel here, remembers carrying him up the steps. It's only been a few weeks, he realizes with a jolt, it seems like so much longer.

He gives Castiel a hug at the door to his room, it has become something of a ritual, folding the boy into his arms and letting him tuck his head into Dean's shoulder. It gives Dean a moment to relax, to hold another person and let his guard down, to have the moment of physical acceptance before he has to go back into the cold world with all it's strange rules about friendship and affection. He holds Castiel for longer than he probably should, but the boy doesn't seem to mind too terribly. He's feeling better than he was this morning, Dean can tell. He's kicking himself for not realizing sooner what the problem was, for jumping to every terrifying conclusion before even glancing at the one right in front of his face.

“Good night.” He says, pulling back.

“Good night, Dean.” Castiel mumbles sleepily, stumbling into his room to tuck himself under the covers.

 

Dean wakes confused. The sky outside his window is still dark, and when he fumbles for his phone he finds it only half-past three in the morning. He squints into the darkness wondering what woke him, but he sees nothing.

There's a sound, he thinks, something small at the back of his mind, but he's still half asleep and he can't make sense of it as he stumbles to his feet and makes his way blearily out into the hall.

The sound is a little louder, rising and falling at odd increments. Finally, it hits him, it's crying.

He rounds the corner into Castiel's room and, sure enough, finds him sitting up and sobbing into his hands. His shoulders are heaving and shaking, tears dripping through his fingers and down his wrists. The whole room reeks of despair, of a dusky blue sorrow and sharp orange fear.

“Hey,” Dean says, going to the bed and sitting down next to Castiel, “Hey, what's wrong?”

Castiel gasps, choking on an inhale, and reaches for Dean as soon as he's close enough. His wet fingers scrabble on the sleeves of Dean's shirt, pulling him closer.

“It's okay,” Dean lets himself be pulled to Castiel, and gathers the boy to him in turn, rubbing his back and putting a comforting hand on the back of his neck, “It's okay. It's okay now.” He says it over and over again, hoping that something will stick.

Dean holds Castiel for quite some time, but even after his sobs have tapered off he's still wracked with sorrowful hiccups. Tears and snot soak the shoulder of Dean's shirt, but it doesn't matter.

Very carefully, he brushes his knuckles across Castiel's wet cheek. “You here?”

One small nod.

“Good,” Dean sighs, “That's good.”

“S-sorry.” Castiel's hands are trembling on Dean's arms, where they grip the fabric of his shirt for dear life.

“That's okay, it's okay.”

“I- I d- dreamed-” He stutters, “I- I was back-”

“Nightmares.” Dean sighs, “I figured.”

“Nobody came,” He whispers through a fresh wave of tears, “Nobody c- came for me.”

“You're safe now.” Dean tells him, “Remember that. Somebody did come, and now you're here with me.”

Castiel nods and starts to rub the tears from his eyes. The whole situation is _almost_ under control when Dean puts his hand down on the mattress for support and finds it wet.

“What's-”

It only takes a moment for him to realize the situation, and for Castiel to realize it too. The boy's face, red from crying, goes white now. Mortification shows plainly on his face, along with that sick look of realization and something like defeat.

“No, no no no, please-”

“Hey, it's alright,” Dean tries, “It happens, it's okay.”

Castiel gasps, and gasps again and again, tying too hard to pull air into his lungs. He's crying again now, and Dean is beginning to worry that Castiel might choke, when the boy raises his own hand to his mouth and bites down so hard on his thumb that Dean sees blood.

“Whoa!” Dean exclaims, reaching out to pry Castiel's hand, as gently as possible, from his mouth. It's not deep, thankfully, but it is bleeding, Castiel is hysterical, and Dean needs to calm him down before he hurts himself again.

“Okay.” Dean says, taking both of Castiel's hands into his own, “Can you listen to me for a minute.”

He gets a shaky nod.

“I want you to get some clean pajamas from your dresser, go to the bathroom and get cleaned up, wash your face off,” He frees one of Castiel's hands in favor of brushing tears from under the boy's eye, “get changed, and go lay down in my bed. Okay? I'm gonna put your sheets in the washer. You can leave your dirty pajamas in the bathroom.”

“I'm sorry.” Castiel says, watery eyes trained somewhere on the comforter, “I'm sorry, I’m sorry-”

“It happens.” Dean assures him again, “Right now, I want you to go get cleaned up. Can you do that for me?”

A nod.

He helps Castiel off of the bed, and waits until he hears shaky steps making their way down the hall before he begins to strip the soiled sheets off of the bed. Into the wash they go, and by the time Dean goes to wash his hands, Castiel has finished and is nowhere to be seen.

In Dean's room, Castiel is curled up on top of the covers, staring at the wall. Dean slides in on the other side and reaches over to put his hand on Castiel's back.

“Used to happen to me too.” He admits, “For years. It was so fucking embarrassing, never would sleep over at anybody else's house.”

He's met with silence, and a tense back under his hand.

“Why don't you get under the covers, you're gonna get cold like that.”

“What if-”

“Hmm?”

There's a small sniffle, and a whisper, “What if I ruin your blankets too?”

Dean's heart sinks in his chest at Castiel's voice, so absolutely defeated. He scoots closer and puts a hand on Castiel's arm.

“Come here,” He says.

It takes a minute, but finally Castiel rolls over and, still sniffling sadly, climbs under the covers and lets Dean draw him closer.

“First off,” Says Dean, “You didn't ruin anything. They're in the wash and they'll be just fine tomorrow. Second, I really doubt you have any more pee even left in you, and if you do I'll be more impressed than anything else.”

Castiel sighs, and finally tucks his head into Dean's chest. “I'm really sorry.”

“I promise it's okay.” Dean cards his fingers through Castiel's soft hair, “It happens to people sometimes, it's not your fault.”

“I thought I was doing better.”

“It's gonna take time. But you're doing great, and I’m here to help you out, yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Lets try and get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

“Alright, goodnight.”

Castiel falls asleep with his head tucked into Dean's chest, and Dean's hand in his hair, and an unnamed kiss hiding behind Dean's lips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(castiel gets upset and bites his hand, draws blood)_  
>  (castiel has a nightmare and accidentally wets the bed)
> 
>  
> 
> Castiel is using the [Shadowscapes Tarot Deck](http://www.shadowscapes.com/Tarot/cardsmain.php?suit=0), which is super pretty and I love it.
> 
>  
> 
> What kinds of things would you guys like to see Castiel experience?  
> Comments are the sun that keep my little plant self alive. I love you all, thank you so much for continuing to read my story!  
> Come talk to me about this or anything else on [tumblr!](http://everythingbagels.tumblr.com/)  
> Love and hugs,  
> Grace


	4. Blueberry Pie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm posting this a day early because I don't have my usual day off tomorrow, I hope you all don't mind. _Hopefully_ i'll be back to my regular schedule next week.
> 
> This chapter is from Castiel's POV, so it's a little different, and it's a little darker in some parts. But I hope you guys like it!
> 
>  **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER**  
>  \- past suicidal thoughts  
> \- lots of self loathing  
> \- mentions of blood a few times  
> \- mentions of violence  
> \- memories of implied non-con situations (not sure how to word it, but it doesn't go into any detail)  
> 

If someone had said, years ago, that Castiel would be free, living with a witch and eating all the cake he wants, he never would have believed them. He would have dismissed them as crazy immediately. Him, living a life free of the Church of Avoth? Unthinkable.

Not that he hadn't _wanted_ to think it, but it had seemed such an unreachable dream that he never allowed himself to dwell on it except in his darkest moments. Then, then he'd thought it was over.

He can remember every detail of the church on that last evening. The smells of bistort and frankincense still burn in his nose, the cold stone floor under his bare feet. He remembers the evening being chilly and the church unheated, his skin tight with goosebumps, body wracked with shivers. The light had been low, votive candles had burned all throughout the sanctuary, but there was no artificial light to speak of.

Chanting, he remembers chanting too, as the church readied together to bring a demon into the world. Later: screaming, from everyone who had gone before him. Sobbing, and blood pooling on the stone tiles around his feet.

All of this he'd freely told the sheriff when asked. Details, that's all they are. Observations, facts. But there's one thing he hasn't shared and he won't, never in his life will he tell it.

He'd been glad. Yes, glad.

They won't understand; Dean and his brother the sheriff, Charlie, Gilda, Pam. They won't understand, and he won't tell them. They expect him to be a fighter, everyone expects a fighter, but they don't know what it's like to live as nothing for your entire life. They have no idea of the things Castiel has seen, the things that have been done. They don't know, and he won't tell, so they'll never understand the gladness, the absolutely profound _relief_ he'd felt to know that it would all be over soon.

It was the kindest he remembers Father Adler ever being, stripping them all down in an almost reverent way, leading them through the church. The ritual, he hadn't really understood. It had been a lot of magic, and he doesn't really understand magic, but then the Father had started slitting throats, and the end was in sight.

Of course, then they'd been interrupted. Waves of people dressed in uniform and flashing badges, shouting, screaming, _down on the ground_. He remembers a moment, can recall it in a heartbeat, when he'd reached for the knife dropped in the commotion, to finish it himself. The way out was not quite closed, the slide of a knife and he'd be free of his earthly shackles. In the end, he'd been too weak. He hadn't the strength to slit his own throat or to plunge the blade into his belly either. It lay fallen on the floor, slick with the darkening blood of his brothers and sisters.

But then, rescue.

Freedom. Or something like it.

He wonders sometimes, in the middle of the night when everything is quiet, if his only chance at peace wasn't snatched away that night. But he doesn't say that. That would be... ungrateful. He's not ungrateful, not at all. But... sometimes he wonders.

 

Castiel stares out the apartment window to the street below, at the cars puttering down the twilit street. Blue car, grey car, red van, grey car-

“Hey Cas!” Charlie yells from the kitchen.

The spike of panic that lances through him at the sudden noise isn't new, it's something he has to deal with constantly. Everything is very loud and sudden, and it's not Charlie's fault, but she is often the most loud and sudden. His fingers tighten on the window sill, but otherwise he remains composed. He can manage it sometimes, and then other times his mind seems to collapse in on itself.

“Yes?” He says.

“How big a piece do you want?” She gestures toward the cake sitting on the kitchen table. She brings one almost every night, determined to expose Castiel to the Wonderful World of Pastry.

He shrugs, he'll take whatever she'll give him.

She shrugs back and goes to cut the cake.

It goes like this: he wakes every morning and remembers that he's in a new place where he doesn't know the rules, he and Dean go down to the shop where Castiel hides until it's time to close, they come back upstairs and Charlie and Gilda bring cake or pie or something similar.

On paper, it sounds pretty boring, but Castiel enjoys it. It's... calm, at least with the exception of his own unpredictable panic attacks. He wishes he could control it, or at least explain it, but they happen for such a variety of different reasons and some of them are things he can't talk about. It's not Dean's fault that Castiel freaks out when the man comes up behind him, because it's reminiscent of when Father Adler used to come up behind him and kiss the back of his neck. That's not Dean's fault, but there's no way Castiel can tell him that.

There are so many, many things he can't say, and they build up behind his tongue until he can't sleep, until he thinks he might scream. But he's good at not screaming, and he doesn't make a sound.

 

There's a window in the backroom of Dean's shop. It's dingy and small, and it's facing an ally so it doesn't offer much in the way of light or a view, so Castiel generally doesn't bother with it. Today, though, there's a sound coming from the other side of it. It's a light scratching, and Castiel dutifully ignores it for about a half an hour. Eventually curiosity wins, as it's not an especially threatening sound, and he leaves the safety of the decrepit backroom couch for the window. The cause is immediately apparent, the Mysterious Window Scratcher sits perched on the ledge just on the other side, staring at him. Its paw is poised to scratch again, but it stays still.

“Oh.” Says Castiel, “Hello.”

“Mrow.” Says the Window Scratcher.

“What are you doing here?”

It wiggles its nose.

“Dean,” Castiel calls out.

“Huh?” Dean's voice comes from the front of the shop.

“There's a cat.”

There's a moment of silence, then the sound of a chair being pushed back, then footsteps.

“A cat?” Dean asks, poking his head into the room.

“A cat.” Castiel points to the window, where the creature still perches.

“Well hey there, fella.” Says Dean, coming over to stand next to Castiel in front of the window

The cat blinks. Castiel... remembers.

_Dirty light filters in through a small basement window, illuminating grime covered floors and mildewy walls. Castiel- no, Six, sits with his back against one wall, doing his best to ignore the steady trickle of dirty water coming from somewhere above his head. Everything smells rotten here and he's beginning to have trouble breathing. Two is huddled beneath a fold-out table that sits directly under the window. She might be sleeping, or she may have passed out. Her red hair is plastered to her face and neck with perspiration._

_Nothing happens for a very long time, as nothing has happened for a very long time before. Six dozes, only to be brought back to consciousness again and again by the sharp pains in his damp, wet feet and hands. From somewhere above, he hears a soft sound._

“ _Six!” Says Two._

_He must have dozed, because now she's kneeling atop the folding table, shift riding high up her pale thighs. She straining toward the small window. She won't fit out. What's she doing?_

“ _What?”_

“ _There's a cat!” She whispers fiercely, gesturing at the window. The life is back in her voice._

_Six climbs uneasily to his feet, casting cautious glances toward the stairway at the other end of the basement, leading up into the world._

“ _Get down.” He says, “If they catch you-”_

“ _They won't catch me.”_

“ _You always say that.”_

_She doesn't respond. She stands all the way up and grasps the edge of the window to look out, where a small gray tabby sniffs at the grass._

_Six moves closer, doing his best not to look at the dark red and purple welts on the back of Two's thighs, a souvenir from some recent transgression, although Six can't remember what. Two gets disciplined a lot; she gets the rod, the belt, the rope, the handcuffs, the small cellars and, in one instance, a hole in someone's backyard. Six feels the need to protect her, but she makes it difficult. She doesn't seem to have any sense of self-preservation._

“ _Come here little cat.” Two says, tapping on the window, “Come here.”_

_But then, they hear the tell-tale creak of floorboards. The basement door opens._

“Cas?”

Castiel blinks, and again. He's back in Dean's shop, with the smell of dried thyme drifting in through the door. It's light, he's safe, he's not hungry.

“I'm okay.” He says, but he can feel that familiar tightening in his stomach, that strange feeling, as if he shouldn't be _here_ in this room or this spot or this body. His skin is too tight, soon it will split open and slough off and he'll be new.

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, startling Castiel once again.

He'd already forgotten that Dean was here.

“Yes.” Says Castiel, and maybe he's not, but he will be eventually. He always comes back to himself in the end, once he's sorted his through the knots his thoughts have tangled themselves into. Dean doesn't need to know that, at the moment, Castiel is waiting for all his skin to split open.

He can feel the weight of Dean's eyes on his face, but he doesn't look back, he can't. He stares at a corner of the window until the bell at the front counter dings, and Dean has to go wait on someone, sending a curious glance over his shoulder. Castiel breathes a sigh of relief when he leaves. It's not that he doesn't like Dean, or want him around, because he does. It's just hard to constantly have to pretend he's alright when he isn't, when he will be but he needs a little time.

Castiel goes to the window, his middle and pointer finger pressed to the glass. When the kitten butts its head against the window, his heart jumps in his chest. He has this horrible, pulling sense of homesickness all of a sudden, from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. It's ridiculous, not only because he's never really had a home, but because he's feeling it toward a kitten. A kitten is not a home. He's never even _met_ this kitten before, how could it possibly be his home?

As he watches it though, he begins to realize that it may not be the kitten itself, but perhaps the memory that it unearths. He misses his sister.

When Dean comes back, Castiel smells him before hearing his footsteps. He smells like an herb garden, like he's always carrying sprigs of mint and sage in his pockets which, knowing Dean, he probably is. The thought gives Castiel momentary pause, the fact that he _knows_ Dean, the fact that he trusts him. It's such a heavy feeling.

Dean comes to stand next to him for a moment before, slowly, reaching out to unlatch the window. It creaks ominously as he pushes it up, showering dust and paint chips onto the floor.

The cat sneezes. It steps inside as though it has always belonged here, and Castiel admires its certainty. Without the dirty window in the way, Castiel can see that she's a very small calico, with big green eyes and a very swishy tail.

“Hey there, bud.” Dean coos, reaching out to scratch the cat under its chin, “Aren’t you just the cutest little thing?”

The cat arches into Dean's palm and immediately begins to purr like a very small helicopter. Dean scoops it up and brings it to his chest, where it sinks its claws into his shirt.

“You want to hold her?”

Castiel squints, “How do you know it's a girl?”

Dean shrugs, “Calicoes are all girls, I think. Anyway, I don't see balls.”

“Hmm.”

Dean pries the cat gently from his chest, “Here,” He says, passing her to an unsuspecting Castiel.

She sinks her claws immediately into Castiel's arm, but it barely registers. He's so used to ignoring pain that this seems like nothing at all. She's soft, and sweet when you get past the claws. She pushes her small face against Castiel's chest in a way that makes him feel, quite suddenly, like he might cry. He presses his finger gently along her spine and she squirms with delight.

“Aw, damn.” Says Dean, “You're bleeding. She got you pretty good.”

Castiel looks down and, sure enough, he's got blood dripping down his hand. Now he feels the sting, and he has to go completely still to resist the urge to throw the cat across the room.

“Okay,” Dean says, prying the cat from his hands, “That's alright.”

Castiel's hands are shaking, and all he can smell is the metallic tang of blood in the air. He feels oddly lightheaded, almost dizzy, but not quite.

Dean sets the cat down on the floor to explore and then comes close, hands on Castiel's arms. “Hey, it's okay.” He says, pulling Castiel in and in and wrapping his arms around him.

For a moment, Castiel feels a stab of panic at being confined, but it's quickly soothed by the familiar weight of Dean's arms and the warmth of his chest. He closes his eyes and lets his head tip onto Dean's pectoral, to rest there as he navigates the turbulent waters of his mind. Pamela says he should try and think about _why_ things bother him, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to look his fears in the face anymore. He's done it his whole life and he'd really like to hide now, thank you very much.

Dean's hands are firm and steady on his back, points that ground him to the world. Without them, he might be floating in his own mind forever.

“Sorry.” He says. He's making a scene, he's being a burden. People don't like it when you make a fuss, Castiel knows this, and he's dedicated much time and energy to never, ever making a fuss. But the rescue, the kind treatment, seems to have undone all his hard work, and he finds himself unable to keep his emotions in check. He cries so easily now, and Dean can always tell when he's panicking, even when he's sure he's got it under control. He wishes he were stoic again, that he were the emotionless robot that he's always been. Dean doesn't deserve this, this emotional mess that he's turned into. He shouldn't have to deal with it, and eventually he'll get tired of it. And then what? Where will Castiel be then? Where will he go? What will he do?

He doesn't even realize that he's started breathing faster until Dean pulls back to look at him in the face.

“Nothin' to be sorry for.” He says, “Hey, come on. Let's sit down.”

“The shop-” Castiel protests.

“It'll keep.”

Dean leads him to sit down side-by-side on the little couch, and pulls him close once again until Castiel is practically in his lap. One of Dean's hands travels up to softly kneed the tense muscles of his neck.

It's a surprising sensation, one that has Castiel gasping and melting against Dean's chest. His treacherous fingers wont stop curling where they lay at Dean's sides.

“What, you like that?”

Castiel doesn't open his mouth, too afraid that he'll start mewling like a child, but nods against Dean's shoulder. It's a different kind of touch that he's ever felt before. Meant to sooth his muscles, it's a fundamentally healing touch. Aside from the clinical ministrations of doctors, no one has ever done that before.

It makes him want to cry.

It makes him want to scream.

The kitten jumps up onto the couch in a sudden movement that makes Castiel jump, but he relaxes as soon as he sees what it is. He's not afraid of the cat, he was only startled earlier by the blood. He reaches out, and she nuzzles into his palm.

“Do you like cats?” Dean wonders.

“I think so.” Says Castiel. He's still leaning heavily against Dean, and the man's voice makes soothing vibrations through his chest.

“You want to keep her?”

“I- I-” Castiel stutters, “Do you?” He doesn't want to do anything that makes Dean think of him as a burden. He doesn't want to make a decision that Dean won't like, do _anything_ that Dean doesn't like. He already does stupid _stupid_ things like wet the bed, even though he's an adult, and he won't do anything else to jeopardize his place. He _can't_.

“Yeah,” Dean admits, “I kinda want a cat.”

“Okay.”

“But do _you_ want a cat?”

“Yes.”

Dean frowns. “It's your decision too,” he says, “You'll have to live with her. I don't want to do this if _you_ don't want to.”

Relief and caution war furiously in Castiel's gut, but he forces his mouth into a feeble semblance of a smile. “I like cats.” He says.

Dean narrows his eyes, but after a moment takes him at his word. He reaches out to pet the cat as well, his fingers brushing Castiel's own atop her soft fur. It makes Castiel feel safe, cared for, and something else. Something strange and unknown that bubbles in his chest and his stomach, but he ignores that.

“What do you want to call her?” Dean asks.

“Oh. I don't know.”

“Any ideas?”

Castiel opens his mouth, then closes it again. He has ideas, but they're stupid. He doesn't want Dean to think that he's stupid.

“What?” Says Dean, leaning in close with his curious eyes.

“I- nothing. It's silly.”

“Come on, I love silly!”

Castiel swallows, forcing his fear and trepidation down his throat in a tight ball. He shouldn't be shaking over sharing an idea, he shouldn't be. Why is he so afraid about something so small? He closes his eyes and doesn't think about being small, about voicing his opinion and having it beaten out of him. He's not small. He's not small. He's not small. He's grown, and he's free, and he's safe.

Nevertheless, he can't stop his voice from shaking. “We- we could call her “Windy”.” He says weakly, “Because... she came in through the window.”

Dean blinks, then surprise registers on his face. He tips his head back to let out a bark of surprised laughter. “I love it!” He says, grinning, “And I think it suits her.”

“You do?”

“Yeah I do.” He sighs, “She'll have to have her shots, and as soon as she's old enough she'll have to get fixed.”

“Or you could just let her have a bunch of kittens and you'll have a house _full_ of cats.” Castiel says thoughtfully.

Dean grins at him. “As much as I'd love that, I’m not sure I’d be able to afford to feed 'em all.”

Castiel spends the rest of the day playing with the kitten until she grows sleepy, as does he, and he falls asleep on the couch with Windy on his chest.

Surprisingly, he wakes easily. Dean is at the side of the couch, saying his name, and it doesn't startle him at all. Is this how normal people wake up all the time?

“Cas,”

“Hmm?” Castiel mumbles.

“If I take Windy to the vet, will you be okay with Charlie and Gilda until I get back?”

Castiel is awake now, sitting up despite the cat's protests as she slides down into his lap. He can't help the cold panic that surges through him at the thought of being without Dean, and that scares him too. He shouldn't be so dependent on the man, who could decide at any moment that Castiel is too much trouble. But he doesn't _want_ to be without Dean. No one else is as kind to him, or as understanding.

Castiel takes a breath. Gilda is good, and soft, and kind. It'll be fine. He'll be fine.

“How- how long will you be gone?” He asks, wishing he could close his eyes and go back to sleep.

“Not sure, I don't really know how many shots she'll need. Couple hours, tops.”

No matter how much he breathes, though, Castiel can't be rid of the anxiety that grows tighter and tighter around his middle.

“Cas?”

“I'm okay.” Castiel forces himself to say, “Yes. I- I'll be okay with Gilda. And Charlie.”

Dean rubs his hand in a soothing motion up and down Castiel's thigh, it's something that would bother him if it were anyone other then Dean. “Charlie and Gilda both have my phone number. If you need me, have them call, okay?”

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“Okay.”

“Promise?”  
  
Castiel nods, fingers digging into the sides of his thighs until he can feel the prick of pain through the fabric of his jeans.

Dean's fingers tap the top of Castiel's knee. “It's gonna be alright.” He promises, “And you've been doing a lot better recently. I think you'll be okay. You like Gilda, right?”

Castiel nods.

“She'll do something fun with you.”

Castiel takes in a steadying breath and nods again. He can do it. He can hold himself together for a few hours. It'll be fine.

 

It's not fine. Dean is gone, Charlie and Gilda are in the apartment and it feels like an invasion. They keep asking him questions and making small talk, and without Dean as a buffer it feels like entirely too much. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, and he doesn't want to be rude but he really, really longs to retreat to the gentle quiet of his room.

On the far end of the couch he closes his eyes and tries to block out Charlie's chatter, tries to find a calm place somewhere in his mind. There's nothing there.

The approaching smell of sugar has him opening his eyes, and Gilda comes to kneel in front of him.

“Do you want to help me make a pie?” She whispers.

Anything is better than this, Castiel thinks. If he helps Gilda, at least he'll have something to do with his hands. He nods, and gets up to follow her into the kitchen, leaving Charlie to watch the tv by herself.

Gilda already has two lumps of dough on the kitchen table, which is covered in flour. A big wooden rolling pin and a glass pie tin sit nearby.

“Next time I’ll teach you how to make dough too,” She says, “But I thought it might be easier this way. Come on, don't be shy. We'll just roll this out, easy peasy.”

Gently, carefully, she instructs Castiel on rolling the dough out enough to fit the pie pan. He finds, once he's started, that he likes the feeling of the heavy rolling pin in his hands. He likes the weight of it, the feeling of holding and having. He rolls out the dough, and when it cracks Gilda is quick to assure him that it's fine, and to show him how to simply press it back together again. She shows him how to roll from the center outward to keep it from sticking, and how to lift and turn the dough as he rolls.

When it's big enough, they roll the dough carefully onto the pin to transfer it to the glass tin. They gently press the dough so that it lines the bottom, and Castiel loves the feeling of it on his fingers. It's cold and floury, and the texture seems like it reminds of something, but he doesn't know what. He wants to keep touching it, but instead it goes into the refrigerator while they make the filling.

Gilda has a big bag full of blueberries that they wash in the sink. She eats several and urges Castiel to do the same.

“Taste testing is very important.” She whispers, as if imparting a secret, “You have to make sure the blueberries are perfect.”

They are. They're sweet and ripe, and Castiel has to stop himself from shoveling handfuls into his mouth.

“I got extra just so we could eat some,” She admits, emitting a girlish giggle that soothes Castiel's spirit.

The blueberries go into a big mixing bowl with sugar, corn starch, allspice, cinnamon, salt, and lemon zest that Gilda scrapes right off of the yellow fruit. Castiel stirs the mixture until it's one big blueberry mess, smelling sweet and making his mouth water.

Into the pie crust the blueberry mixture goes, and Castiel admires the contrast of the smooth, light dough and the dark blueberry mess.

Castiel had completely forgotten about the other lump of dough on the table, but now Gilda brings it to his attention and it brings forth a feeling of pleasant surprise. There's more to do, and Castiel suddenly realizes that he's glad. He likes this. He like the rolling and the mixing and the measuring, he likes the feeling of flour on his palms, the purple blueberry stains on his fingers. He's feeling calm, in fact, almost sound. He feels like a regular person, just making a pie with a friend. He doesn't even realize he's smiling until he looks up and finds Gilda staring at him.

“Darling,” She says, “that's a wonderful look on you.”

It's a little embarrassing, but Castiel is still feeling very good and he doesn't try to stifle his smile. He nods, and helps her to roll out the other lump of dough. They cut this one into strips, and Gilda shows him how to make lattice crust, which takes time but it's not as difficult as it seems. Castiel enjoys the repetition, and when they're done they crimp the crust, and Gilda gushes about how good it looks.

“You did so much better than I did on my first pie.” She says, shaking her head as they slide the pie into the pre-heated oven, “Mine was a mess.”

“You showed me how.”

“But you did most of it yourself. You have good instinct for this, a good eye, steady hands. Do you like baking?”

Castiel thinks, “Yes.” He says finally, “I think so.”

Gilda smiles, showing all her white teeth, “I'll teach you how to bake, dear. Would you like that?”

The funny thing is, he would. It's not something he's ever thought about before, baking. He's never done it and, as a hobby, it just never crossed his mind. But now that he's tried it he wants to do more and more, he wants to _learn_.

“I would.” He admits, “I would like that.”

Together, they clean up their baking mess while the pie cooks. They do the dishes and wipe the table and put everything away. Then, to Castiel's delight and trepidation, they talk.

It's not as though Castiel has never talked to another person before. It's just difficult for him, he doesn't have much common ground with anyone, and his anxiety makes it hard to keep conversation going. But Gilda is easy to talk to, and she seems to understand when he's having trouble. She gives him time to finish his thoughts, even if it takes a minute, and she never interrupts him.

By the time Dean gets home, they've even made plans for more baking lessons.

“I'm home!” Dean calls from the front door, toting a cat carrier in one hand and several large bags in the other. Charlie leaps from the couch to take the carrier, and the bags go into a heap on the floor.

Gilda and Castiel make their way into the living room in time to see Charlie unlatch the carrier and let Windy out into the apartment. She scampers out quickly, eager to be free of her confinement. She tires easily though, and lays down on the carpet to nap.

“She got a lot of shots today, she's pretty worn out.” Dean explains, pulling things out of his shopping bags. A small litter box, a bag of litter, a bag of cat food, and an incredible amount of toys are strewn across the carpet.

“I stopped to get her a few things.” Dean says casually, “I may have gone a little overboard, but she definitely needs all these toys.”

“Oh definitely.” Says Charlie, “I'm sure she needs five different squeaky toys shaped like fish.”

Castiel scratches Windy on the head, listening to his friends bicker for a while. That's an odd thought. Friends. Are these people his friends?

“We made pie.” Gilda says when she sees an opening in the argument.

Dean's eyes light up, “Awesome! I didn't even think about dinner. Guess I should get on that. What do you guys want?”

“Oh, shoot.” Says Gilda, “I guess we could have made something other than pie.”

Dean waves her off, “You're a freakin' guest, you're not making dinner.”

“We practically all live together.” Charlie says.

“We don't though, sit your happy ass down and let me make some damn food.”

Castiel follows him into the kitchen, feeling the need to do more with his hands.

“Can I help?” He asks.

Dean looks at him, eyes surprisingly appraising. “Yeah.” He says after a while, “Here, cut these.” He lays out a cutting board and starts handing Castiel vegetables to chop while he gets everything else.

“Everything go okay?”

“Yes.” Says Castiel, “I- Gilda is teaching me how to bake.”

“She is?” Dean grins, “Well how 'bout that? You like baking?”

Castiel nods, “Yes.”

Dean leans over and lowers his voice, “Or you just like Gilda? She's married, you know.”

Castiel straightens up, sputtering in surprise, “No! No I- I don't _like_ Gilda, in that way. I admire her as- as a _friend_. How- oh.”

Dean is laughing, and suddenly Castiel feels very foolish. It was just a joke.

“I'm just playin'.” Says Dean, knocking his shoulder into Castiel's, “I know you're friends. I'm glad. It's good that you're making connections with people.”

This, of all things, causes a blush to creep up Castiel's cheeks. “It just- takes me a long time to get used to people.” He says. It's only partially true, because really he hasn't known very many people worth getting used to.

“Hey, that's okay.” Dean assures him, surprising Castiel when he leans closer and slips an arm around his waist, “Everybody's different.”

He's warm, and comforting. He smells of herbs, and Castiel has missed him. He doesn't like being without Dean, his solidness and the soothing timbre of his voice. Castiel leans into him.

Dinner, he enjoys. They have casserole, and the pie for dessert. Castiel loves the sound of dinner, of voices overlapping with each other and the clink of silverware on plates. He doesn't feel pressured to have conversation, he eats and he listens, at least until Gilda brings out the pie.

Dean is ecstatic, from the way he talks one would think he's never had a pie before in his life.

“This is amazing.” He says with startling sincerity, “Cas, you have a gift. You're like, a dessert savant or somethin'.”

Castiel looks down at his plate, unsure how to answer and unable to deal with the sudden barrage of compliments coming his way.

“Gilda showed me how.” He says quietly, hoping that will be the end of it.

“Still,” Dean protests, “You've got the magic touch. Maybe Gilda could be like, your mentor.”

Castiel shrugs. All of this attention is making him feel sick to his stomach, and he just wishes Dean would change the subject.

This time, though, Charlie rescues him when she starts talking about some new album, and Castiel lets out a breath of relief as he sinks slowly back into silence.

After Charlie and Gilda have gone, Castiel curls up on the couch with Windy to watch television. Eventually Dean comes in and sits down next to him, puts an arm over his shoulders so that Castiel can lean into him comfortably.

“So,” Says Dean, “I was thinking.”

Castiel turns his head to look at Dean, and finds him close. He could count Dean's eyelashes if he wanted. “Hm?”

“What do you want out of life?”

“I don't understand.” Says Castiel, and it's true. That's not the kind of thing he thinks about, it's always been about survival, about silence and staying hidden. He's never had the room to think about what he _wants_.

“I mean-” Dean thinks for a moment, “You like baking, do you want to be a baker? What have you done recently that makes you happy?”

Castiel blinks at him, unable to articulate the thoughts now flowing through him. He's been happier here than he's ever been in his life. It's difficult to pick out anything in particular because _everything_ is wonderful. He doesn't act like it sometimes, he knows, but he _is_ happy.

“I- I do like baking.” He says, after a while, “And I like- I liked learning witchcraft with you. I like reading with you. I like the cat.”

Dean laughs, “Yeah, she likes you too, but that's not exactly what I’m talking about.”

“What, then?”

“Goals, I guess. I mean, would you like to try and get your GED? Your driver's license? Something like that?”

Castiel's stomach sours, he doesn't want to do any of that. He doesn't want Dean to realize how stupid he really is, how little he knows. He feels like he's done at least an alright job of keeping it to himself so far, but if he has to take any kind of test they'll figure it out in a heartbeat.

He shakes his head quickly, “Maybe I- I want to be a- a baker.”

“Yeah?”

Castiel nods. “I- I do enjoy it.”

“That's good!” Says Dean, “I'm glad. Hobbies and goals and stuff are important. I want you to have something to look forward to, you know? To work toward.”

“What's your dream?” Castiel wonders.

“Own my own witchcraft shop. And I've got that. I'm livin' the dream!” He grins wide at Castiel, eyes crinkling, and dimples crease his cheeks. Castiel has the urge to touch one, but he keeps his hands to himself.

He's a handsome man though, is Dean. He's got kind green eyes and a freckled nose. He's sturdy, but Castiel has never been afraid that Dean would hurt him, he's got a kind soul.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my blog got deleted by accident last week. I'm starting over, but if you followed me before, i'm at a different url now. Now i'm at [deanlightful](https://deanlightful.tumblr.com/), and I'd love it if you'd stop by!
> 
> I hope you guys liked this chapter, let me know what you think!  
> Hugs,  
> Grace


	5. Parmesan Roasted Green Beans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My grandpa passed away this friday, so this week has been full of visitation and funeral and various other family things. I wasn't sure I was going to get this chapter finished at all, and I ended up writing it all last night. I hope it's up to par, and I hope you'll forgive me if it's not.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:**  
>  \- panic attacks  
> \- one character is pregnant and another suggests she shouldn't keep it  
> \- references to past non-con (not detailed)

Castiel has never owned a pet before. He's been in houses that have them, he's seen them from afar. They were generally genial creatures, but they weren't _his_. Windy, Dean declares, belongs to Castiel.

His feelings are mixed on the subject. On one hand, he already loves her dearly. Her presence fills him with an unnameable joy. On the other hand, he has no experience with this, and he's terrified he's going to mess up. What if he hurts her on accident? What if he feeds her the wrong thing? Picks her up wrong?

Dean insists that it's a nonissue, but Castiel worries just the same. She's small and fragile, and she's his responsibility. It's just a little bit heady.

“mrow.” Says Windy, perched precariously on Castiel's shoulder.

“Oh, I know.” Castiel soothes her, “Come down and I'll give you a treat.”

Unfortunately, Windy does not want to come down. She wants to sit on his shoulder and yowl and nothing will sway her away from this.

“You like treats,” He reminds her, “You remember, you like the chicken flavor?”

Windy digs her claws into his shoulder, a clear indication that she does not, in fact, remember the chicken flavored treats.

“Dean,” Castiel calls into the living room, “I may- need some help.”

Dean's head appears in the doorway moments later, a smile quirking the edges of his lips. “What's up?”

“She's not _listening_.” Castiel complains.

“She's a cat, Cas. That's like, their specialty.” But he comes into Castiel's room to survey the situation. He reaches out and pries the cat gently away.

“You're a menace.” He tells her.

She sticks a paw on his nose.

There's an oddly maternal part of Castiel that rises at this, the urge to protect and care for something smaller than himself. To see her grow, to be a part of that process, it's a foreign urge, although not completely apart from what Castiel has felt for his siblings.

 

He stands in the doorway to the small hallway that leads up to the apartments. He looks right, and he looks left. The sun is blinding hot and stabbing down with unparalleled intensity. The sidewalk may as well be boiling hot lava, sizzling in the heat.

He forces himself, slowly, to take a step out. It's hot, but he's okay, and he takes another step. He walks opposite Winchester Witchcraft Supply, in front of Sweet Thoughts Bakery, one foot in front of the other. He's almost made it past the bakery when the smell of sugary doughnuts catches him off guard, throwing him backward into a memory that overlays, transparent, over the world.

“ _Shh,” Says Four, grinning mischievously, “If we're quiet, we can take some.”_

_He points through the kitchen doorway to the table, piled with boxes of doughnuts. The two of them, Four and Six, are crouched just outside the archway to the kitchen of the Church. They're shrouded in darkness, and all of the churchgoers are at the other end of the long kitchen._

“ _This is stupid,” Says Six, hands curled into fists by his knees, “We're going to get caught.”_

_They've already risked enough by sneaking out of the basement, Four picked the lock and that's enough to get them beat bloody, now he wants to steal a doughnut? His sweet tooth will be the death of him._

_Four brushes long brown locks out of his eyes, wrinkling his nose and shifting closer to the door._

“ _I'll be fast.” He says._

“ _Don't.” Six pleads, he doesn't want to be punished, and he doesn't want Four to be punished either. “Lets go back downstairs.”_

_Four flashes him a look, calculating and cool, but somehow completely devilish as well. He's determined to cause trouble and they both know it. Maybe it's about the doughnut, maybe not. Maybe it's about something much bigger and stranger that Six doesn't like to think about. Four is going to get himself into trouble and, by association, Six as well._

“ _You can go back downstairs.” Says Four, in a moment of empathy, “You don't have to help.”_

_Six takes a breath, ready to agree. Of course, he doesn't. He can't let Four take this on by himself. He can't leave him here to face both their fears alone._

“ _Let's do it.” He says._

Castiel is on the ground. How he got here, he doesn't remember. The bite of the uneven sidewalk under his hands and knees has him gasping, but it also has a grounding effect. Hands, at his shoulders. He jerks away and tumbles further down. At the end of the street, a mirage that looks oddly like his sister, Two, shakes her head.

_Can't even make it two steps._

_Never was a rebel anyway._

_Once a prisoner, always a prisoner._

“It's just me,” Says a voice, and in the corner of his spinning vision he sees red. It's Two, come to make good on all the promises Castiel couldn't keep. Looking again, it's just Charlie, but it's really too late now. His breath comes shallowly, the blood on his palms seems purple instead of red.

“It's just me,” Charlie says again, this time edging slowly into his field of vision. Her hands are outstretched but she doesn't touch, her voice lower than it usually is.

“You're safe, just breathe.”

Castiel doubts her credibility on these statements, but he breathes anyway. The smells from the bakery sooth him, bready and sweet, a gentle hand over his nerves. Very slowly, he comes back to himself.

He feels like he might throw up, overwhelmed by this humiliation. He's having a panic attack on the front sidewalk, because he can't even walk down the street like a normal person.

Eventually, he gets to his feet. Charlie stays quiet, a minor miracle in itself, and holds out her hand to him. He takes it, and feels immediately better to have an anchor, if still incredibly embarrassed by all of this.

He almost balks inside the door of the bakery, because it's _busy_. It's full of people, and he feels like they're all looking at him. He hasn't been seen by so many people since he left the church. But Charlie pulls him forward, a current that he doesn't know how to swim against, back past the counter and into the kitchen. Castiel catches glimpses of Gilda and other girls behind the counter, but no one bothers him.

Charlie shows him firmly to a chair in the kitchen, and then says, “I'll be right back. Stay here.”

Castiel grips the sides of the chair with white-knuckled hands, feeling the thin layer of flour beneath him. There's flour on everything, in fact, on every chrome counter and gleaming oven. But it smells good here. He takes a deep breath, then another, and another. He wonders about everything in the ovens just now, and everything that came before. How much do they have to make a day?

This keeps him occupied until Charlie comes back, until she stands in front of him and says, “We're going to make muffins.”

She gives him an apron with little blue elephants all over the front and a white hair net to got over his dark locks.

Charlie doesn't talk, and Castiel appreciates this more than he can express. He likes Charlie, but she's very loud usually and it's more than a little off-putting. She shows him how to mix the ingredients in a big bowl and use the mixer to combine it all together. Muffins are much simpler than the pie had been, and they're in the oven sooner than Castiel would have liked. He wants to do more, to feel flour on his hands and dough under his fingernails.

Charlie sighs. “I can't go this long without talking.” She says, “I'm getting Gilda.”

So they switch out, and Gilda comes into the kitchen, smelling of honey and giving off a warm, golden glow. She puts a hand on Castiel's arm and he feels better at her cool touch.

“Let's get you busy, honey.” She says.

She's so very gentle, so patient and kind, there's not any point at which he feels afraid of Gilda. She shows him how to make a Swiss Roll, with blackberry filling inside. She takes him through everything step-by-step, but it never feels like she's talking down to him.

He must be there for hours, baking, as Gilda shows him the basics. Even when they're not cooking, but simply making dough and setting it aside for later, it's a good feeling. It's... accomplishment. Castiel feels accomplished. He's learned something and put it to use, created something good with his hands that people can enjoy. It's such an amazing feeling, growing in his chest like a bubble until he might burst.

Much later, Gilda walks him back next door where Dean waits behind his own counter. He doesn't look concerned, so he must have known where Castiel was, but he smiles when they come in. There's a part of Castiel that's nervous presenting Dean with the Swiss Roll cake, even though he knows that Dean would never be cruel to him. There's still that small pinprick of fear in the back of his head, and it's enough. But Gilda is here with him, so he comes behind the counter and slides the cake over to Dean, who beams.

“This is gorgeous.” He says, “It looks amazing, good job!”

“He's doing very well!” Gilda chimes in, “A very fast learner.”

Castiel ducks his head, feeling his cheeks heat at the praise. No one has ever called him a fast learner, in fact Father Adler always called him slow. He's had the rod time and time again for not completing tasks fast enough, for not remembering instructions.

They go on about him for a while, and Castiel simultaneously wants to sink into the floor and jump up and down. Praise is overwhelming and it makes his hands shake.

When Gilda finally leaves to help Charlie close up, Dean holds out his arms and lets Castiel step into them. He melts against Dean, burrowing his head into the smell of sage and wishing, wishing he were closer still.

“You're so smart.” Says Dean.

Castiel doesn't answer, but presses his face into Dean's shoulder instead. It's not true. He's not smart. He's getting better, sure, much better than he used to be. It's easier to remember things when he's not hungry and in pain, but still. He's nothing special. He knows this. He's always known this. For some reason, though, this time the thought _aches_. It hurts and he's not sure why, and before he can parse it he's crying into Dean's shoulder.

Dean's hand is in his hair, scratching lightly at the fuzz on the nape of his neck. His other arm is around Castiel's middle, holding him close.

“I've got you.” Dean murmurs, “That's okay. It's alright.”

But it's not alright. It doesn't _feel_ alright, and Castiel can't figure out why. Why does he feel so horribly, terribly sad all of a sudden?

“I'm sorry.” He whispers, barely audible, “I'm sorry.”

“Nothin' to be sorry for.” Dean rumbles, “There's always a place for you, right here.” He gives Castiel a small squeeze, and the tears start falling anew, but maybe they feel a little different now. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, he sees his siblings in the half light of the church with rings of red around their throats.

“I-” He starts, but hiccups catch him off guard.

“What?” Dean asks, rubbing a hand over Castiel's back.

“I want- to see my sister.” Says Castiel. He's said it before, but he wants it so much more now. The desire to see her again burns in his stomach like hot coals. He _needs_ to see her.

“Okay.” Says Dean, “You think you're up for it?”

“I don't know.” Castiel says honestly, “But I want to try.”

Dean nods, face serious, “Let's do it.”

They need armor, of course, and after it's time to close the shop they go upstairs to get suited up. Dean finds Castiel a large, wide-brimmed hat that falls down over his eyes. A light jacket and a pair of boots, and Castiel feels suitably protected. Whether it will work once they step outside is yet to be seen, but it makes him feel better for the moment.

All covered up, Castiel does feel better going outside. The problem is that it's hot out, and he's soon sweating in all his layers. It's okay though, he's endured a lot more that a little bit of sweating.

He hesitates on the threshold of the door up to the apartments, but Dean is there beside him, sliding his hand into Castiel's.

“I'm here.” Dean reminds him, “I'm not going to let anything happen to you.”

Castiel takes a deep breath and he nods once, he takes the step out the door.

Castiel stays very close to Dean, pressed tight up against his side with his hand in Dean's. They probably look odd, Castiel realizes belatedly, but Dean isn't complaining so Castiel doesn't move away. As always, everything is very bright and loud, but this time he's got Dean with him, and a Very Big Hat. He pointedly doesn't think about the fact that a hat is _very little_ actual protection in the face of the world. For a while, he actually closes his eyes and lets Dean lead him along.

It's not a particularly long walk, but it's still further than Castiel is comfortable with. Despite his best efforts, he's shaking badly by the time they get to the Mills-Hanscum home on the outskirts of town. He can't help clinging to the back of Dean's shirt as the man knocks on the door.

It's a two-level farm house, sprawling and well maintained, painted a fading peach color. It has a large porch with a swing that Castiel can envision Two sitting on. Not that she ever sat on a porch swing before, but it seems like something she'd like.

It's only moments before the door swings open and a smallish blond woman is smiling cheerfully out at them.

“Dean!” She greets him, “Come on in! This must be Castiel, it's so good to meet you, honey! I'm Donna.” She doesn't hug him, to his tremendous relief, but instead extends a hand that he takes gingerly and shakes.

“I got your text,” She tells Dean, “I told her you were gonna try and come today, she's so excited!” She turns back to Castiel, “She's been missin' you somethin' awful, I tell ya.”

She takes a deep breath and claps her hands, a wide grin dimpling her cheeks, “Come on in, then, you want me to take your hat? Must be awful hot.”

They step inside, the cool air hitting them like a wall, and Dean helps him to peel off his jacket and hat. The house is nice; it's simple and clean. It smells of lemon cleaner and old oak, and it's possibly the tidiest house Castiel has ever seen. They're in the front hall, with a large living room on once side and a spacious kitchen and dining room on the other. They bypass a staircase going up to the the second level, a bathroom, and a washroom, until they reach the back door. The back porch is enclosed, screens let in the breeze but not the bugs. There's a couch at one end, looking out onto the wide back yard, and at the other...

An easel, huge, a canvas covered in paint. There she is, sitting on a stool before it, paintbrush poised to touch the canvas. At the sound of their footsteps, she turns. Her eyes widen when she sees Castiel, and her mouth splits into a wide smile that makes him feel like crying.

“Six!” She cries, leaping to her feet and throwing herself toward him. He's never seen her move so fast before. He opens his arms to intercept her and does, in fact, start to cry as she collides with him.

Arms around his sister, he feels more whole than he has in a very, very long time, as if this were the last piece of the puzzle he needed. She's thicker than she used to be, he can't feel her ribs at all and he thinks this is a good thing.

He remembers how she used to smell, like dirt and tears and sawdust. She doesn't smell like that now, but like flowery shampoo and acrylic paints. Her hair, tied loosely up in a bun, looks brighter and stronger than it ever has.

She's crying too, her nails are digging into his back and that's okay. It's okay. Everything is okay. He holds her for a good long time, and when they finally pull apart he finds that Donna and Dean are gone.

Two eyes him critically, wiping wetness from beneath her eyes. She has a spot of dark green paint on her cheek and Castiel can't help but think it suits her.

She reaches up to touch his hair, so much longer than it ever was before.

“You look so different.” She says.

Castiel smiles, “So do you.”

Two smiles back, “I missed you so much.”

“I would have come sooner. I wanted to. It's just- going outside is...”

“It's very loud.”

Castiel sighs. “Yes.”

There's silence between them, and Castiel worries suddenly that they have nothing to talk about. Could his sister have become a stranger in the mere months he's been away from her?

But then she's smiling and tugging on his hand and he realizes what a stupid thought it had been.

“Come look at my painting.” She demands, “I've been doing them. Donna and Jody get me all the paints I want.”

It's a landscape of the back yard, full of bright colors and a heavy-handed technique. It's very Two, and he tells her so. Of course, this sets her to talking about paints and shadows and colors and a lot of artsy things he doesn't know anything about. However difficult it is to follow, he's glad to be listening. To have her here, alive and healthy, presumably happy, is all he wants. He'll listen to her talk over his head all day to see that light in her eyes. It's similar to the light she used to have, when she was about to do something to get herself into trouble, but it's so much better now, un-tempered by fear and pain.

Eventually she drags him over to the couch and they sit down side by side.

“They treat you well?” Castiel asks.

She nods, “They're very very good to me. I can eat whatever I want, they get me all the paints I want and lessons too. I get medicine, I see a therapist twice a week.”

“Does it help?”

“Yes.”

Castiel frowns. “I... don't feel like mine is really making a difference.”

Two narrows her eyes at him slyly, “Are you opening up?”

Castiel huffs. She knows him far too well, even now. “It's hard.”

“Well of course it's not working if you don't give them anything to work with. You were always so bad at expressing your feelings.”

At this, he feels a spike of annoyance. “And how would that have helped me back then?”

She frowns at him, “Don't be mad. I'm only saying it'll help.”

It's true, he knows it is. It's hard not to be closed off when you've always been punished for your feelings. But then, she manages it, so maybe he's just defective.

“Stop that,” She says, “You're over thinking. I can see it.”

“And I'm sure you've got everything figured out.” He says, maybe just a little petty.

“I'm _trying_ , Six.”

“I don't go by that anymore.” He tells her, “Now it's- it's Castiel.”

“Castiel?”

“Or Cas.”

“Cas.” She says it slowly, “I like it.”

A weight lights from his chest, he hadn't even realized that he'd been nervous about her acceptance of his name, but he feels relief.

“Me too.” He says.

“I'm trying a new name too.” She says after a moment, “Anna. Do you like it? Like Anne of Green Gables.”

“Who?”

“She's from a book I'm reading. Do you like it, though?”

It takes him a minute to realize that now _she's_ nervous about him liking her name. It's such an odd feeling, to be nervous around someone you've known your whole life.

“Of course I like it.” He assures her, “Anna. It suits you.”

Anna smiles. It does suit her, much better than _Two_ ever did. She's not just a number, she's a whole person, and so is he.

“You look well.” She says, “You look... _more_.”

“I am.” Castiel says, “I... yes. I am. I'm learning to bake, and Dean and I are reading The Wizard of Oz. It's nice. Do Donna and Jody read to you?”

Anna shakes her head, “I read by myself. But I like it that way. Mostly I just paint.”

“Your painting is good.”

“Maybe I'll do one of you.”

“Just don't make me ugly.”

She sticks out her tongue, “I would never.”

“How is Five?” Castiel wonders.

Anna frowns, “Same as he was. He won't wake. I don't know if he ever will.”

Castiel sighs, feeling as though he's already lost Five the way he's lost everyone else. It's a knife to his chest. He may not have been as close to Five as some of the others, but they've still been through much together. What if he never wakes? Is this the end of him?

He tries not to dwell on these thoughts, but they take up residence in the back of his mind, casting everything in dreary light. He puts on a smile though, he doesn't want his sister to know his thoughts.

They talk like this for some time, until the sun begins its decent and Dean pokes his head out onto the porch to say, “We'd better be heading back soon.” and then retreat back inside.

Before Castiel can go, though, she grabs his arm. “Wait,” She says, “I have- I want to tell you-”

She looks nervous again, and Castiel has the sinking feeling that she's about to tell him something bad. He's not sure why, but he feels it in his bones, in her grip on his arm.

“What is it?”

She takes a breath and averts her gaze from his for a moment, seemingly gathering her courage. “I... I'm...” She closes her eyes, “I'm pregnant.”

Castiel stares at her. He feels relieved for a moment, this isn't the first time she's been pregnant. She's never carried a child to term before though, due to extreme malnutrition and abuse. But she's telling him this, why? Is she planning on keeping it? He feels bile rising in the back of his throat, but he has to ask, “Who's is it.”

She swallows, “Father Adler's.” She whispers.

“Are you keeping it?” He asks, unable to completely keep the horror from his voice.

“I don't know, maybe?”

“Why? Why would you?”

Her look now is somewhere between pleading and apologetic. She wants him to understand, but he just doesn't.

“I'm healthy enough now, I could keep it.”

“It's _his_.” Castiel says, feeling the need to spit, to get even the idea of Father Adler out of his mouth.

“It's _mine_.” Anna protests, “I've never got to keep one before, and now maybe I could. I thought you'd be happy.”

Castiel shakes his head, “Why? Why would you? After everything he's done to us? You want to have a child that's half him?”

She puts a protective hand over her belly, and now that Castiel knows, he sees that what he thought was just weight is a baby bump. “It can't help it.” She says softly, “It's just a baby, it can't help who its father is.”

Castiel shakes his head, “I can't- I can't stand this. I have to go.”

She reaches for him as he stands, but he pulls away. He feels like he might throw up. His sister having that monster's baby, it's just too much.

“Castiel!” She cries, “Please,”

Tears are welling in her eyes, but he can't see past his own disgust. He storms through the house to where Dean is waiting in the front hall, talking to Donna. He doesn't even take the time to grab his hat and jacket, so eager to be out of this place. He's out the door before Dean even realizes, and down the street before Dean catches up, too upset to even care about the fact that he's out in the world.

“Cas!” Dean comes up beside him, having had to run to catch up, “Cas, what's wrong?”

Castiel wipes tears from his eyes with shaking hands, but he doesn't slow.

“She's _pregnant_.”

“Uh. Okay. I mean- on purpose, or?”

“It's _Father Adler's_.” This time, Castiel does spit.

“Oh.” Says Dean, finally beginning to understand the complexity of the situation.

“She wants to keep it. How could she want to keep it?”

Dean's hand comes to the small of Castiel's back, and Castiel slows his gait just a bit. “Maybe you should cut her a little slack, Cas.”

Castiel shakes his head. “It's disgusting. After everything he did to her. To me. To _all of us_. She wants to have a baby that's _part of him_. And every time I see it I’ll think of- of all of it and I- I- I can't-”

He's having a difficult time breathing, and he has to stop walking when everything starts to spin.

“Okay,” Says Dean, coming up in front of him to hold him upright, “Let's get you home, and then we'll talk about it more, okay?”

It's much slower going after this, with Dean helping Castiel along, but eventually they make it back and it's a relief to be in the apartment again. Castiel throws himself on the couch and Dean quickly follows.

“I think you should give her a break.” Dean says again.

“Why?” Castiel wonders, leaning close to Dean and tucking his head into the man's shoulder.

“This is the first time in her life she's had agency over her own body.”

Castiel shakes his head, “But why would she want the baby?”

“I don't know, Cas. I didn't talk to her. But it's nobody's business but hers.”

“It is!” Castiel argues, sitting up straight, “Every time I look at that baby, I’m going to think about Father Adler, and I don't want- I don't _want_ to.” He's aware that he's crying again, but he can't help it. He's upset and overwhelmed, and he feels betrayed by Dean's inability to see his point of view. Dean is _supposed_ to be on his side.

“Maybe that's something you should talk to Pam about.”

“I don't want to!” Castiel insists, pulling away further. He doesn't want to open his heart over and over again. He gets up from the couch, ignoring Dean's call after him for the quiet sanctuary of his room. As soon as he's curled up in bed, though, Dean is there in the doorway.

“Cas,”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“I know. But I think maybe you should.”

“You said this is my room, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“So- so, please leave.”

Dean exhales, looking a little more tired than before, but he steps back out of the room.

“I'm going to start dinner,” He says, “I'll let you know when it's ready.”

Castiel is aware that he's being mean, maybe even unfair. But Dean was supposed to be on his side in this, and not having him agree feels like a slap in the face.

He curls up in bed and lets his tears soak into the pillow. For a good while his thoughts are all dark and mean, hurt and hurtful. After he's cried himself out, though, he begins to realize how foolish he's being. He's only just got his sister back and already he's being cruel to her. That's not who he is, what's gotten into him?

By the time he slinks out of his room, dinner is almost ready and he's feeling incredibly embarrassed by his actions. He stands in the doorway to the kitchen, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

“Um,” He says after a while, finally catching Dean's attention, “I'm sorry.”

Dean sets his spatula aside and turns away from the stove. He leans back against the counter with his hands in his pockets. “It's okay.”

“I was rude to you. And to Anna. I- it's not my choice to make, I know that. I was just...”

“You were upset.” Dean says, pushing away from the counter and coming closer, “I get it.”

“I shouldn't have asked you to leave.”

“It's your room, you can always ask me to leave.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I don't know what to do. How am I supposed to feel about this?”

“I don't know, Cas. But you love your sister, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then I think you have to let her make her own decisions.”

“What if they're bad decisions?”

“They're still hers.”

Castiel huffs, leaning down to pick up Windy, who has come to rub against his leg. She nuzzles into his face.

“You're on my side, aren't you?” He asks her.

She blinks at him with her big green eyes and begins to purr. Castiel brings her closer to his chest.

“Why don't you call her and talk to her more, I bet she was pretty upset when you stormed out.”

Again, Castiel feels a rush of shame. He shouldn't have left the way he did. “I don't have a phone. I don't think she does either.”

“You can use mine. We'll call Donna and I'm sure she'll put Anna on.”

Castiel takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long sigh, nuzzling into Windy's fur. “Okay.” He agrees.

In the end, it's simpler than he thought it would be. Anna is eager to accept his apology, and they make plans to visit again soon. Dinner is quieter than usual, but at least Castiel has gotten guilt off of his chest. He helps Dean do the dishes after dinner, and when they're finished, Dean says,

“Come here, I have an idea.”

Castiel follows, of course, out of the kitchen and into his own room.

Dean pats the side of the bed, “Take your shirt off and lay down.”

Castiel freezes, a sickly fear turning his veins to ice. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for someone else to use him, not anymore.

“No no!” Dean says, correctly interpreting his expression, “Not like that! It's not- I’m just going to rub your back, okay? That's all. You've had a stressful day.”

Again, Castiel feels foolish. He's been thinking the worst of everyone today, and he shouldn't. Dean has proved himself trustworthy over and over again, and here Castiel is misinterpreting his intentions.

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“No, I’m an idiot.” Dean waves him off, “I should've said. Actually, I should have asked. Do you want a back rub?”

Castiel thinks for a moment, and finds that he doesn't mind the idea of it. He's never had one, but it sounds nice, and Dean is nice.

“Okay.” He says.

He doesn't particularly like the idea of disrobing, even if it's just his shirt, but he pulls it over his head anyway and crosses his arms over his chest. Neither his chest or back are a pretty picture, he knows, scarred from years of beatings. But Dean doesn't say anything, and Castiel lays face-down on his bed feeling only slightly uneasy. Dean sits down beside him on the bed and, after a moment, his hands begin applying careful pressure on Castiel's back.

He's not really expecting much, and is pleasantly surprised when it feels nice. Dean's palms are broad and his fingers are strong and dexterous, he rubs at the muscles of Castiel's lower back, all the way up to his shoulders, and then to his neck. By the time he's done Castiel is pliant and relaxed, half asleep already. He hasn't felt this relaxed in recent memory.

Dean leaves him with a pat on the back and a kiss on the crown of his head. Castiel falls asleep with Windy tucked up under his chin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Four is Gabriel. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://deanlightful.tumblr.com/) I promise I'm friendly!
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading my story, I'm so glad to have you all along for the ride with me.  
> Comments = hugs!  
> Love,  
> Grace


	6. Lemon Crumb Muffins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is about half as long as it should be, and I apologize for that. I don't want to make excuses, but I'm only getting one day off work now and i'm stressed tf out. And, frankly, I've been procrastinating this week bc I started playing Fire Emblem: Awakening AGAIN for the millionth time.  
> Anyway, I appreciate your patience with me, and I'll work hard to make the next chapter better and longer. 
> 
> **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:**  
>  \- some blood  
> \- a ghost (i bet you all forgot there's witches and cults and supernatural stuffs in this story)  
> \- this is an angsty chapter

The trouble begins when Castiel starts learning to meditate. It's supposed to calm him and clear his mind, but when his mind clears he begins to hear the voices. It's just whispers at first, unintelligible wisps of sound that come from the air. Castiel continues to practice meditation, and the voices get clearer. He can almost make out what they're saying. Almost. They sound eerily familiar, and he's not overly worried when he starts hearing them throughout the day. He doesn't mention it to anyone at first, it doesn't seem terribly important. But then, one day, he thinks he sees something. It's just out of the corner of his eye, a flash of white, the whispers grow. It fills him with unease. Certainly there's something there. He can't shake the thought, the idea that something ethereal is following him. It bothers him so much that he brings it up one night at dinner with Dean, Gilda and Charlie.

“I think something is following me.” He tells them. His plate is heaped with noodles and mashed potatoes and he can't even enjoy them until he's got this off his chest.

Dean puts down his own fork immidiately, leaning forward over his plate to look Castiel seriously in the eye. “What do you mean?”

“I just- I feel like I keep seeing things out of the corner of my eye. Wisps of white. And i've been hearing... voices. They sound familiar.”

Gilda looks deep in thought, and Charlie looks a little worried.

“A ghost?” Says Gilda, after a moment.

“Sounds like.” Dean agrees, “Do you feel threatened?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Slightly annoyed. Nothing more.”

Charlie, Gilda and Dean share a look, considering.

“I'll get my crystals,” Says Dean, standing suddenly.

“I'll get the incense.” Says Gilda.

“What about _dinner_!” Says Charlie.

 

 _After_ dinner, Charlie cleanses the apartment with sage while Dean gets some Apophyllite crystals from his room and Gilda gets her incense. They sit together on the living room floor, with the crystals in front of them and the incense making the room smoky.

Charlie rolls her shoulders back and clears her throat.

“Are there any spirits here?” She says to the room, “If there are any spirits that are trying to communicate, we're willing to talk.”

Castiel looks around the room, not sure what to expect, and more than a little dissapointed when nothing happens at all.

He leans toward Dean, trying not to disrupt Charlie, and whispers, “What's supposed to happen?”

Dean shrugs, “We're just tryng to see if there's anyone here.”

They keep trying for a while, but with no success.

“Why don't you try, dear.” Gilda suggests to Castiel, “It's _you_ that's being followed. Maybe it'll speak to you.”

Castiel balks. He doesn't really want to try and speak to some unknown entitny, and he doesn't want to look foolish if it's unsuccessful. He shakes his head.

“We're all right here,” Dean reminds him, setting his large hand atop Castiel's, “We won't let anything happen.”

“What if it doesn't work?”

“At least we tried.” Says Charlie.

So, Castiel tries. He takes a deep breath to quash the anxiety in his stomach and squares his shoulders.

“Um. Hello?” He says into the air, feeling exceptionally silly, “Is there anyone there?”

The reaction is immidiate and startling, a chill washes through the apartment, where before it had been temperate.

Dean's eyes are huge, he looks at Castiel, stunned, “There _is_ someone here.” He says.

“Who's there?” Castiel says.

The whispers are starting again, and this time Castiel can tell that the others hear them too. They tense, Gilda's hands clasp together in her lap. Charlie sits up straighter, a calculating look in her eye.

“I can't understand you.” Castiel says to the spirit, “Can you- I mean, can you make yourself clearer?”

The coffee table rattles, sending papers and cups tumbling to the floor. Above them, the light flickers.

 _No_ , says a little voice, so faint. It sounds like it's from far away, almost too far to hear.

“It says no,” Castiel tells the others, “It can't make itself clearer.” For some reason, this bothers him, the thought that this being is just out of his understanding.

“Come closer,” Gilda says into the air, “The crystals should help you get stronger.”

There's a long silence, and they all wait patiently until, out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees movement.

“There,” He says, turning his head. There it is again, a little flash of light, coming nearer and nearer. It looks like a bit of fabric, maybe a shirt or...

It hits him just as the spirit steps close enough to the stones and begins to materialize. It looks like the edge of a shift, like the ones he and his siblings wore to the sacrificial ceremony. He knows, even before the spirit takes shape, where he's heard that voice before.

He's pale, translucent, looks a bit like someone dumped a bag of flour on his head. Small, with sharp eyes and a nose that's bent from being broken more times than Castiel can count.

“Six,” Says the ghost.

“Four.” Castiel breathes, feeling like someone has just taken a knife to his chest. He can't breathe. There's his brother, standing in front of him, dead. Dead. Dead. Castiel's hands begin to shake with nerves and fear and guilt, “I'm sorry.”

The ghost reaches out, fingers passing bodilessly through Castiel's face. It's odd, this close he still can't make out all of Four's features, it's like he's seeing them through a dirty glass.

“No worries.” Says the ghost.

But that's the thing, really. Castiel's brother, dead only months now, is telling him _no worries_. His hand has passed through Castiel's cheek. It's too much, he can't process it through his overwhelming sadness and guilt.

He pulls back, flailing, tumbling to his feet.

“I can't-” He says, “I- I can't-”

Four disappears.

It's worse. It's ten, twenty, a hundred times worse than having him there. Seeing him for a moment and then having him gone again just opens the wound so it's bleeding afresh.

Castiel can't breathe, he can't see, he wants to cry and vomit and go to sleep forever. This isn't how it should be, how any of it should be. That when they finally escape, he should make it out alive instead of someone else, anyone else, pains him more than he cares to say. Everyone else deserved to live.

“Hey,” Dean says, very close by, his hand on Castiel's arm, “Breathe. Remember to breathe.”

Castiel doesn't want to breathe. He doesn't want anything, he just wants to sleep. He pulls away, away from Dean's gentle hands and understanding eyes, and he walks as quickly as he can to his room. He doesn't want to be comforted.

It's not fair. It's not fair that, out of everyone, he should live. He didn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve this. Any of it. Any of these good things that have happened: Dean and Charlie and Gilda, Windy, this home, good food and people who care for him. Why should he have this, when naught but one of his siblings got the same? Why? Why him?

He cries himself to sleep, only to be woken by nightmares again and again. Dean comes to check on him every time, but Castiel feigns sleep and Dean doesn't push it. Castiel feels raw and exposed, and he can't bring himself to talk about it just now.

 

Castiel is shaky for days, uneven on his feet all of a sudden. He sees Four's white wisps now and then, but he doesn't manifest again, even in the witchcraft shop where there's surely enough energy to do it. Castiel is sullen, and he can't seem to help it. He knows that it's not a nice thing to be, that people don't like it, but he can't seem to get himself out of this foul mood. Everything feels so pointless, and all of the feelings that he's been putting aside are bubbling up in his chest like a foul mud. He's curt and silent, brushing off all of Dean's attempts to talk to him about it. He doesn't want to talk about this.

The one thing he allows is Windy, pure, innocent creature she is. She doesn't know the grim darkness that eats at his heart, and she doesn't much care. She wants Castiel's lap, and that he can give her.

Of course, things come to a head, as they always do. It happens when Castiel is in the kitchen and accidentally knocks Dean's favorite mug off of the counter with his elbow. He can see it in his mind's eye before it even happens; the mug shattering into a million pieces, Dean finally losing his temper.

It does break, though into three pieces instead of a million. Castiel experiences a moment of icy dread before he hears Dean coming down the hall to check on the noise. He drops to his knees, trying to gather the pieces together with trembling hands, and do what? He's not sure. Maybe he can hide them, maybe-

“You okay, Cas?” Says Dean, striding into the kitchen, “I thought I heard a crash.”

“I'm so sorry!” Castiel cries, feeling his eyes begin to fill already with tears. This is it, he thinks, this will be the last straw. He broke something of Dean's, and now he'll have to pay.

“It's okay, Cas.” Dean says, coming to kneel beside him.

His words to nothing to calm the rapid pounding of Castiel heart. “I didn't mean to,” He swears, “I'm so sorry, i'm so so sorry.”

“Cas, Cas, hey. Hold on a minute.”

The pieces of the mug are in his hands, but he grips too tightly and suddenly his hand is stinging. Blood wells from the cut on his hand, and his vision starts to blur.

“Shit,” Says Dean, taking the glass quickly and deftly from Castiel's hands, “Alright, that's alright. It's not deep, okay?”

Nothing is okay, and Dean doesn't seem to understand. Is he angry? Castiel can't tell. Some people are never angry until they are.

“Breathe,” Dean tells him again, wrapping an arm around his middle and pulling him closer, “Cas, I need you to breathe, okay? Don't worry about the cup, it's not important.”

“But it- it was your f- favorite,” Castiel stutters around crying-induced hiccups. His hands are in Dean's shirt, and how they got there he doesn't know, but he's smearing blood all over the fabric.

“It's just a cup.” Dean says softly, “It's not important. It's just a _thing_. I can get a new one.”

“But- b- but-”

“Cas,” Dean pulls back just a little, to look into Castiel's face, to wipe tears tenderly from his cheeks, “I don't care about the cup. I care about _you_. _You're_ what's important. You know that, right? You know I- you're what matters to me. Your well-being, your happiness. You've got to know that by now.”

Of course, this sets him crying again, because he has no control over his emotions anymore. “I'm sorry.” He says.

“It's okay. It's alright, come here.” He pulls Castiel to him again, tucking Castiel head into his shoulder and letting him cry until he doesn't have any tears left in him.

They sit there on the kitchen floor, Castiel's blood dying on his hand and Dean's shirt, pieces of Dean's mug between them. Castiel looks down at the pattern on the linoleum, struck suddenly by how patient Dean really is. It's not new news, exactly, but it's as if he's realizing it all over again. Dean is the kindest, softest, most reliable person he knows.

He lifts his head and looks into Dean's face, heart suddenly racing for a completely different reason. He leans forward and kisses Dean on the mouth.

Dean... does nothing. He doesn't push Castiel away, but he doesn't kiss back eather. When Castiel pulls back, Dean just says, “Let's get you cleaned up.” Like nothing has happened.

 

Neither of them mention the kiss, Castiel goes to bed that night confused by both Dean's behavior and his own. Why did he do that, he wonders. Why did he kiss Dean? After everything, why would he want to invite anything sexual at all? But then, maybe it wasn't sexual, he muses. Maybe that's not what it was at all, it's hard to remember what he'd felt in the heat of the moment.

And Dean, why did Dean do nothing at all? What does it mean that he neither pushed Castiel away or kissed him back? What does it mean that he pretended it didn't happen?

Obviously he'd been uncomfortable, Castiel surmises eventually. His own feelings and actions are harder to parse, but Dean's are clear enough. He hadn't wanted to hurt Castiel's feelings, but obviously the kiss was unwanted.

Maybe it's for the best. This is the easier way, after all. No mess, no complications.

This, of course, makes Castiel think about it more. Is it _feelings_? Does he have feelings for Dean? Other than the regular ones? When exactly does it stop being friendship and become something else?

This is all so complicated, and he wants to talk to someone, but is there anyone he can _really_ trust with this information? 

 

Castiel sits on the porch swing on the front of the Mills-Hanscum house, swaying back and forth. Anna sits beside him, hands crossed delicately over her belly. She's wearing a soft pink dress with lace at the hem, and it should clash with her hair but somehow it doesn't. She's beginning to show, a small baby bump where her stomach used to be flat.

“I'm so glad you can come see me now.” Anna gushes.

“I've been working on it. It's been hard.” Castiel admits. He's been working with Pam to get over his fear, and it hasn't been easy at all. It took him several hours to psyche himself up enough to walk here today, and even then he had a panic attack halfway. But he's here, and that's all that matters.

Anna holds out an arm and Castiel scoots close to lean into her side. She runs her fingers through his hair and he closes his eyes.

“What's got you so stressed?” She wonders. She always was the best at telling when something was bothering him.

“I don't know.” He lies, then, “I might have done something dumb.”

“What did you do?” She wonders.

He stares at her knees, at the scars that criss-cross her flesh down her shins. How can she be so broken and still so beautiful?

Castiel is not beautiful, just broken. Just a clay pot shattered on the floor with no hope of being whole again. He's made progress, quite a bit of it, but he'll never be a whole person in the way she seems to be.

“Have you ever been in love?” He wonders.

“No.” She says.

“Have you ever... had feelings for someone?”

“What kind of feelings?”

“I don't know, romantic?”

She scrunches her face, “I don't know.” She says finally, “Maybe? It's hard to say.”

“I know.” Castiel sighs.

“Are you having romantic feelings for someone?”

“I'm not sure. I'm not sure if they're different than my regular feelings.”

“What are you going to do?”

Castiel thinks of the kiss. He'd done something, and it had gotten him exactly nowhere. Now, he'll do nothing. “Wait and see, I guess.”

 

The nightmares don't stop. No matter what Castiel does, how much or little he sleeps, whether Windy is there with him or not. Sometimes he remembers them and sometimes he doesn't, but he wakes up screaming more often that not. It's gotten to the point where he's afraid to sleep, but too exhausted to stay awake. He can't remember anything Gilda tells him about baking or anything Dean tells him about witchcraft. Sometimes he sees Four out of the corner of his eye, and it alternates between being comforting and devestating. He still hasn't told Anna about Four, about the ghost that follows him around. What would she think about that? He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want the knowledge to hurt her like it hurt him. Like it _still_ hurts him, that his brother is stuck in the in-between.

Things with Dean are... much the same. Dean pretends that the kiss never happened, and after a while Castiel begins to think that maybe it didn't. Maybe he dreamed it. Of course, he has a scar on his hand from the glass mug, but that doesn't mean anything, really. It won't be the first time he's imagined something. His mind is not to be trusted.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the ghost is Gabriel (Four)  
> \- dean isn't trying to be a dick here, i swear. he's just confused/conflicted, and the next chapter is his pov so you'll find about about that
> 
> thanks for reading even though i'm a shithead who procrastinates all the time, I don't deserve you wonderful readers.


	7. Sweet Potato Lentil Soup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I have any warnings for this chapter, if you spot anything you think I should tag, let me know.

 

Dean sits at the shop counter and breathes in the smell of sage from the plant by the window. He imagines himself being cleansed just by the sent, freed of the want to stare at the way Castiel walks, talks. The way he shuffles tarot cards and the way he kneeds dough with his dexterous hands.

Castiel is a miracle, a wonderfully complicated study in survival. He's trying so, so damn hard every day and Dean respects him for that more than he'll ever be able to say. For the fact that he gets out of bed at all after everything he's been through. Not only does he get out of bed, he gets out of the house now, he picks up new skills and even sometimes talks to new people. There's not a quality about him that Dean doesn't admire.

He's been thinking about this more and more lately, in the wake of a strange, confused kiss.

He might have thought it perfect, sweet and chaste and soft, but for the feeling that it didn’t really mean what he’d wanted it to mean. Because what does a kiss mean, really, to a man who has been through as much as Castiel has? Was it a gesture of friendship? Was it something more? And if it was, could Dean ever really have Castiel in that way without feeling like he was taking advantage, like he’s done something villainous?

So he does nothing, and if something comes if it then that’s great, and if it doesn’t, then so be it. Dean will be happy either way. He's happy every day he wakes up and sees Castiel's face, to tell the truth. The man has become a staple in his life, and he has no idea what he'd do without him. Who was Dean before Castiel came to live with him? He doesn't know, he doesn't much care.

There’s a ghost following Castiel around, his brother, apparently. He’s subtle, staying mostly out of sight, but Dean has had dealings with ghosts before and he knows what to look for. The temperature dropping is a tell-tale sign, as the entity draws on the energy in the air. There’s a background hum in the air as well, very faint, and occasionally Dean will hear whispers that he knows are Four.

The thing is, Dean can’t even really be annoyed, can he? If he died and had the chance to come back and look after Sam, he’d take it. It’s not as if Four is doing anything either, really, a little chill and some background noise is all it is. It’s not as if he’s a poltergeist. He’s content to let the ghost linger as long as Castiel doesn’t mind him around, although anytime the ghost decides to show his face Castiel has a breakdown. Despite this, he imploded even more when Dean mentioned banishing the spirit, so Four stays, floating around the edges of Castiel’s life. One of these days Castiel will probably have to deal with Four one way or the other, but he’s ignoring the idea and Dean is happy to let him. He’s very aware that sometimes you have to let people do things at their own pace, especially in cases like these where every little thing is so fragile.

There’s the case of Anna too, and her unborn child that causes Castiel such turmoil. That one’s a tricky situation if Dean ever saw one, and he’s trying to stay as _out of it_ as he can manage while still providing Castiel with support.

 

Dean runs his hands through his hair and lets out a huff of heavy breath, wishing not for the first time that things were simpler. He turns on his stool to look into the backroom where Castiel is sprawled out on the old couch, long limbs hanging here and there and everywhere. He’s snoring softly with the cat soundly asleep on his chest.

Castiel doesn’t often take naps in the middle of the day anymore, but he had nightmares all last night and he’s got to be exhausted. As for Windy, she’s always ready to nap.

Dean purses his lips, he doesn’t regret taking Castiel in, not for a minute. Even with everything, all the confusion and complication. He’d rather have it than not. All the late nights, all the hours spent talking Castiel down from nightmares and panic attacks, he doesn’t mind it a bit. Can’t even pretend that it bothers him, really.

It’s a slow day, and eventually Dean’s hands turn, as they always do, to witchcraft. It’s a familiar road with grooves worn deep and comfortable, a path he knows as well as his own home. It fills him with a sense of calm, a sense of knowing what’s really happening around him.

He’s been working on a charm, a small figure of a cat whittled from birch wood. He’s given it eyes of minuscule amethyst shards and anointed it with chamomile oil. Currently he’s trying to decide if he should leave it as is or drill a hole through the middle and make it into a necklace. He’s unsure about Castiel’s feelings toward jewelry and he’s not sure how to ask.

Dean sighs, rubbing the cat’s small ears with his thumb and looking back over his shoulder for what must be the millionth time. Castiel has grown so much in the months he’s lived with Dean, in spirit as well as body. He’s filled out, from sickly thin, and even has a little bit of pudge on his stomach that Dean longs to touch. He seems taller somehow, and it may be that he’s finally begun to stop slouching and trying to make himself seem smaller. His skin has more color now that he can stand to go outside sometimes.

Spiritually, emotionally, he’s made great strides. Dean is amazed, constantly, by his capacity for healing; the softness of his heart when all he’s known is pain.

To say that Dean is fond of Castiel would be a vast understatement, but this is not his to take: this thing that Castiel may or may not be offering. It pains him, but it’s the truth. He’d never feel right about it if he took advantage of someone so fragile.

“You’re thinking too hard.” Says a nearby voice, just outside his normal range of hearing.

“Four,” He greets the ghost.

“Your head is going to explode.”

Dean side-eyes the ghost, now sitting nearby atop the counter, swinging his legs back and forth.

“My head’s fine.”

“Wrong.”

“Oh?”

“You’re all twisted up. It’s like a monsoon in there.”

“You can’t read my thoughts.” Says Dean, who has had his fair share of experience with ghosts, and knows bullshit when he hears it.

Four pouts, caught. “Well I can see it on your face.” He insists, “Nothing calm about that expression. It’s my brother, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” Dean says lazily, pulling a book toward himself and pretending to read.

“ _So_ is!” The ghost huffs, “He’s _my_ brother. Besides, I’m dead, what else do I have to do other than gossip?”

“You could cross over.”

“Don’t know how.” Says Four, leaning back onto his incorporeal elbows, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“No. You’re not bound here, you could leave if you wanted.”

Four frowns. “I want to see Six.” He tips his head back, “While I still can.”

Dean taps his finger on the page of his open book, eyeing the dead boy thoughtfully. “Would you cross over if you knew how?”

Four doesn’t answer, and when Dean blinks he realizes that the ghost is getting more and more translucent, until he can’t be seen at all.

“Who are you talking to?” Comes Castiel’s sleep heavy voice from the doorway.

“Myself.” Says Dean, “Good nap?”

Castiel nods, shuffling forward to lean on the counter next to Dean. He yawns and rubs weakly at his bleary eyes.

“Nightmares?” Dean wonders.

“Not this time.”

“I made you this.” Dean holds out the little cat charm, “Wasn’t sure if I should leave it or put it on a chain. What do you think?”

He’s unprepared for the wide smile that cracks Castiel’s face, for the happiness in his eyes when he says,

“You made that for me?”

“Well, yeah.”

Castiel reaches out, but his hand goes to Dean’s elbow instead of the charm. It’s only a brief touch, and then he pulls back, but he looks so pleased.

“It’s beautiful.” He says, “You can leave it if you want. It’s perfect just like that.” He takes the cat from Dean’s hand, letting his fingers drift over the smooth wood. He presses the pads of his thumbs to its little ears and inspects its purple eyes.

“It’s a charm.” Dean explains, “Birch wood, amethyst, chamomile oil. To help you with your anxiety.”

Castiel looks down at the charm in his hands, then back up at Dean. His expression is guarded, but then morphs quickly back into happiness.

“Thank you,” He says, leaning forward to wrap his arms around Dean’s neck in a gentle hug.

In turn, Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s middle and pulls him closer still. He smells like sleep and honey and the cat, and Dean can’t help wanting to soak it all up.

He’s endlessly pleased, as well, that Castiel has become so tactile. It’s such a big step, such a change from the frightened, timid boy that first came to live in Dean’s home. It always fills him with a sense of wonder and a satisfied sort of joy.

 

Sam lives nearby, but he’s busy so often that he doesn’t really get to visit quite as much as Dean would like. That said, when he does visit, it’s a treat. Sam and Castiel get along famously, to Dean’s delight. Sam may be startlingly tall, but he’s a kind and gentle spirit. He’s got enormous hands and a scholar's mind, which melds nicely with Castiel’s own curious nature. Once he’d ascertained that Sam was trustworthy, Castiel had unleashed his insatiable inquisitiveness.

Sam brings books now whenever he comes, fiction as well as non-fiction. Sometimes he only brings one or two, while other times he brings boxes full. The once empty shelves in Castiel’s bedroom have filled rapidly, and Dean has recently been looking for new shelves when he goes to the store, as the ones Castiel already has are beginning to bow under the weight.

Dean is in the kitchen cooking spaghetti when his brother waltzes in the door like he owns the place, arms full of bags of treasures. Castiel leaps from his place on the couch to help, and Dean can hear them chattering away already.

He breathes deep of the kitchen smells and, for a moment, closes his eyes, grounding himself. He imagines roots growing from his feet, wriggling down through the floor to the ceiling of his shop, and further still until they reach the ground beneath. He feels calm. He feels… centered. Here he is, cooking dinner for some of his favorite people in the world. Everything is good and calm, they’re happy and so is he. The thought fills him and fills him until there’s not a single space left that hasn’t been inhabited by this comfortable happiness, this knowledge that everything is okay. It won’t be forever, he knows, but he’s happy to live in it for now. He’s happy to take these moments as they come and enjoy them the best he can.

“I brought books.” Sam calls into the kitchen, “And some clothes. And donuts.”

Dean turns, face incredulous, “Donuts?”

Sam lumbers into the room, setting his bags down heavily on the floor. “For dessert.”

“Donuts are for breakfast, you maniac.”

Sam rolls his eyes, “You can eat donuts any time of day, Dean, it’s not a _rule_.”

“You’re just saying that because cops-”

“Cops love donuts, yeah yeah. I’ve heard it. Fuck, I should’a brought waffles.”

“Calm down, i’m just playin’. I’ll eat your damn donuts.”

Sam huffs and puffs, but he doesn’t mean it, he never does. He knows that Dean is just giving him hell, and Dean knows that Sam is never really offended.

Sam sets the donuts on the counter and goes about showing Castiel the rest of his spoils: a dozen used books, two pairs of pants and four shirts.

“Try ‘em on.” Dean encourages Castiel, who seems unsure what to look at first.

“Oh,” Says Castiel, “I, um.”

“Here,” Sam pulls out a shirt and a pair of pants, “Why don’t you go put those on and then come back and show us how they look?”

Castiel takes the clothes, slipping back into timidity as he sometimes does. When he leaves for his room, Dean sends Sam a look.

“You just suggested a fashion show, you know that, right?”

Sam shrugs, unconcerned. “Who doesn’t like a fashion show?”

Castiel, apparently, does not like fashion shows, at least at first. He’s hesitant to show them his first outfit, overwhelmed by their praise, but by the third he seems to be having a good time. He even does a small spin when Sam suggests it, and then looks embarrassed when the brothers clap.

“Looking good!” Says Dean.

“Work it!” Says Sam.

Castiel huffs, cheeks colored. “I’m going to change back now.” He informs them, walking quickly away. When he comes back he’s wearing his clothes from before. He takes his box of used books back to his room to find someplace on the overstuffed shelf to put them.

“You _could_ help me, you know.” Dean tells Sam from the stove. Sam stretches out in the chair from the kitchen table, and Dean has a sudden vision of the whole thing snapping under his weight. Sam grins and gives him the finger.

“He’s doing really good, isn’t he?” Sam asks, after a time.

“Who, Cas?”

“Yeah, dummy, who else?”

“Yeah, he’s doing good.” Dean ignores the barb, “He’s made a lot of progress.”

“Better and better every day. I’m glad. When you first took him in, I wasn’t sure anything would help him.”

Dean pauses in stirring the pasta sauce for a moment, recalling the memory of the first day he met Castiel. He’d been called _Six_ then. He’d been so much _less_.

“I remember.” Dean says, and he doesn’t want to say anything else about it. It almost hurts to think about, the way Castiel used to be so afraid.

“Thank you for the books, Sam.” Says Castiel, coming in the doorway, silent as always, “They’re on my bedside table, I didn’t have any more room on my shelves.”

The fact that he says _his_ shelves, that he feels possession over these objects in his room, warms Dean’s heart.

“No problem.” Sam waves him off, “Jess goes by this used bookstore all the time and she grabs anything she thinks you’ll like.”

“Jess?” Dean asks, although he has an inkling that he already knows the answer.

“Ah, the nurse.” Sam says, scratching the back of his head, “We may have… gone out a couple times.”

“A couple times?”

“Yeah.”

“And why am I just hearing about his now?”

Sam huffs, “I don’t know, Dean. We’ve only been on a _couple_ of dates, it’s not like it’s serious or anything.”

Dean levels him a look, which is greeted with a frown. “Alright, fine. But if it _gets_ serious, you’ll tell me?”

“Yeah, course I will. I just don’t know yet. I mean, I like her a lot, but I don’t know how much she’s into me. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

“You could ask.”

“No way.”

Dean shrugs, “Well, that was my only suggestion.”

“I didn’t ask for your- ugh, whatever. Is that pasta ready yet?”

As a matter of fact, it is.

 

Dean thinks that nothing could surprise him anymore, or, more to the fact, that being surprised doesn’t surprise him so much anymore.

“I want to go back to the church.” Castiel says one evening when they’ve just come up from the store.

“What?” Dean blinks several times in quick succession.

“I want to go back… to the Church of Avoth. Where it happened. I want to- I want to see it.”

Dean opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.” He says finally.

“Well. I want to.” Castiel says again. He stands up a little straighter, his hands clutching the hem of his shirt tightly.

Dean realizes very suddenly that this is first time Castiel has ever stood up to him. “Okay.” He says, “When do you want to go?”

Castiel looks, suddenly, like the rug has been pulled from beneath him. He glances around the room, as if searching for something. “Oh. Well, just whenever. Maybe Sunday? When the shop is closed?”

“Yeah, sounds good. We’ll do it.”

 

On Sunday, they go. It’s just the two of them, though Dean has a knife and a bag full of salt. He doesn’t know what they’ll encounter there, what ghosts might be lurking.

They walk, and the beauty of the day is disconcerting in a way that Dean can’t really put his finger on. It feels like they’re heading toward something ominous, but the birds are singing and the sun is shining and it’s just not the vibe he’s _feeling_. Its got him all off balance.

The church, when they come upon it, is unassuming. It’s small, one story, with one spire of medium height. The sign out front announces it to be the Church of Avoth, otherwise it could be full of presbyterians.

Castiel puts his hand on the front door and, after only a moment’s hesitation, pushes it open. It’s unlocked, and the front entrance is empty. Dean doesn’t hear a single sound, not a voice anywhere, which is good. As far as he knows, the cult has been disbanded. With their leader and prominent heads in prison, they’ve scattered into the wind.

Just outside the sanctuary is where Dean can begin to see the signs of disaster. Splintered wood from a small hall table. At the sight of a splatter of blood on the floor, Castiel stops. He stares down at it for a good long time, until Dean thinks this might be too much for him, he wouldn’t blame Castiel for wanting to turn and run.

But no, Castiel shakes his head and then steps gingerly over the long-dried stain.

The inside of the sanctuary is an odd sight. There are no bodies, obviously, those have long since been cleared away, along with everything that could have been evidence. The broken pews are still there though, in splintered wreckage. The carpet is so stained with blood that Dean can’t even tell what it was supposed to be before. It smells bad too, musky and rotten. The energy in this closed in church has been festering for months and months, turning into something darker and uglier all the while.

“Cas,” Dean says, very softly, “Are you sure you want to be here?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, but instead goes slowly to his knees, then presses his hands to the carpet. His head goes down then, and he pressing his forehead to the blood-stained floor. His shoulders hitch, and again, and Dean knows that he’s crying.

Dean closes his eyes, and he can feel the church. He can feel the energy, black and thick, moving through the walls and floor like a sludge. He doesn’t like it, not one bit. It feels completely wrong and it’s making him sick to his stomach, but Castiel wants to be here.

Then, as he concentrates, he feels a spot clear in the sludge. One spot, suddenly clean. Then another, and another, like someone wiping the dirt off of a window. He realizes, very suddenly, that it’s Castiel. His tears, his heartbreak, is cleansing this building’s energy of its evilness in a way that Dean didn’t know anything could. He’s never seen this before. Is it really happening?

It is, because Castiel keeps crying until Dean can’t feel a single drop of sluggish bad energy, but instead a clear and white light, and then he collapses onto the floor.

Dean, preoccupied with the building’s energy, snaps himself back to reality and runs to Castiel.

“Cas!” He says, coming down on his knees beside the boy, “Hey, are you okay?”

Castiel’s hands twitch and, slowly, he rolls over onto his back. He stares up at the ceiling, tears still trailing down his face to drip into the carpet below. Somehow, the sanctuary seems brighter than it did before.

“I’m alright.” Says Castiel.

Dean sighs and settles himself to sit more comfortably next to his friend. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry. I just… i’m very tired all of a sudden.”

Dean brushes a lock of hair back from Castiel’s face, wipes tears away from his cheeks with the pad of his thumb. “Did you know that would happen?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I just… it felt like the thing to do.”

And yes, Dean knows the feeling. That strange, nameless pull to do something for reasons unknown to you. Magic, doing its best to communicate to a people that rarely listen the right way.

“You want to go home?”

“Yes, please.”

It’s a slow walk home, with Castiel leaning on Dean more than not, but Dean doesn’t mind. Castiel did a lot better in the church than Dean thought he would, and his blood sings with pride at the growth he sees in his friend.

The final climb up the stairs to the apartment is the worst part, as tired and sweaty as they are. They make it though, and they even get inside before Dean’s phone rings.

He glances at the ID to see that it’s Donna before answering with an exhausted, “Hello?”

“Dean,” Donna says, sounding oddly breathless, “He’s awake!”

“Huh? Who’s awake?”

“The boy!” Donna practically shouts, “The other boy! The one in the coma! He’s awake!”

Dean looks at Castiel, who has collapsed on the couch and is already halfway asleep.

“Awake?”

“Awake!”

Castiel’s eyes drift shut. His mouth is soft and unassuming. He could be anyone, just a normal young man asleep on the couch. So why does Dean suddenly have the sneaking suspicion that he might have just cried someone awake from a magical coma?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've got a few things going on. Mainly, i'm currently studying for my GED. This shouldn't affect the schedule of my writing, but if for some reason I miss an update or something, feel free to pop over to tumblr and interrogate me about it.  
> Actually, any of you guys can interrogate me anytime, that's how much I love you all!  
> For real though, I really do appreciate each and every one of you reading this story, and I appreciate every comment and kudo. All I've ever wanted was to write stories and have people read them, and sometimes it's weird to think that i'm actually getting to do that! Eventually i'll write stories with original characters, and hopefully get them published, but i'm endlessly happy that you all are giving me this first platform and so much support.  
> Anyway, I just wanted you all to know how much I appreciate you!  
> Hugs,  
> Grace


	8. Orange Glazed Buffalo Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I don't always make it entirely obvious, but time has passed in this story. As in: months and months of it. Dean and Castiel have known each other for quite some time now.

The moon is full. Dean knows this with a certainty born of years and years of checking the lunar cycle to see what spells and potions would be best. He knows this even though it’s the middle of the day and he hasn’t bothered to check a lunar calendar in years. He feels the fullness of the moon in his heart, in the way it beats to a slightly different rhythm, in the way his veins sing with extra magic. 

It feels fitting, then, that he should be standing in the Mills-Hanscum spare bedroom looking at a man who has just come out of a magical coma. 

Five is big, tall and well-muscled. How he came to grow so large under the same abuse that left Castiel barely able to walk is a mystery to Dean, but one that he knows he’d probably regret asking about. Five barely fits into the hospital bed installed in the spare room, if he stretches his feet go right off the edge, but he doesn’t seem unhappy about it. He doesn’t really seem much of anything, to be honest. As far as Dean knows, he hasn’t said a word. He’s just been sitting there in the hospital bed looking around with a dazed expression on his face. 

Anna is sitting in a chair at one side of the bed, hands folded over her ever-growing belly. Her hair is pinned up into princess braids, and her skin has taken on an almost ethereal glow lately. Castiel is on the other side, sitting up on the side of the bed with Five’s big hand in both of his own. Dean is just trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

“So, I live with Dean.” Castiel is telling Five, “We live above his shop, and I have my own room and a cat, her name is Windy, and i’ve got a ton of my own books now.”

Five blinks slowly at him. He seems aware, but perhaps overwhelmed. It’s understandable, given the amount of time he’s been asleep, the life he left behind, and the speed at which Castiel is chattering. 

“And I go by Castiel now, I chose it myself, but you can call me “Cas” if you want. It’s like a nickname. Dean calls me that and sometimes Charlie and Gilda and Sam do to. Sam is Dean’s brother and Charlie and Gilda live next door, they’re married.”

Dean watches, wondering when Castiel is going to take a breath. He doesn’t notice at first as Five’s mouth spreads into a large, toothy smile, and is taken aback when he does. Five gives one slow nod. 

“Good.” Is all he says. 

This is the way things go, Castiel talks and talks and then Anna talks for a while too. Five goes very still and quiet when she tells him that she’s pregnant, and who’s baby it is, but he doesn’t freak out the way Castiel had. Five just closes his eyes for a while, and then resumes listening when he’s processed the information thoroughly. 

It’s interesting to watch the three of them, to see how abuse and hardship have shaped them each in different ways. 

 

On the way home, Castiel links his arm with Dean’s, unprompted. 

“They used him for labor.” Castiel answers Dean’s unasked question, “Lifting, carrying, building. He got more food than the rest of us, because they wanted him to get stronger. But he was always trying to sneak food to us. He’s real quiet, you know? But he did his best to look out for us. We all looked out for each other.”

“I know you did.” Says Dean, pulling Castiel a little closer, “You’re family.”

Castiel sighs, “Are you family?”

“Yeah, Cas.” Dean says without hesitation, “We’re family too. You and me, and Sam and Charlie and Gilda.”

“How?”

Dean shrugs. “We all care about each other, and love each other. We’d all do just about anything for each other. That’s what family is.”

Castiel nods solemnly, “I do… I do love all of you.” He turns his head to look at Dean, so serious, “I love you.” He says, then, “I’ve never said that before. I like it.”

“Ah,” Dean clears his throat, fighting the fluttering of his pulse and the feelings rising in his throat. He’s the first person Castiel has ever said  _ i love you  _ to, and that shouldn’t make him feel like he might pass out, but here he is, “I love you too.” He says, ignoring the way his voice catches. He wraps his arm around Castiel’s shoulders, and they walk back to the house this way. 

 

Castiel is cooking. Dean stays close by in case he needs help, but has been unceremoniously booted from the kitchen, so he hovers near the doorway. 

“Just let me know if you need anything.” Dean says, for the millionth time.

Castiel narrows his eyes, “Gilda has been teaching me to cook, Dean, I can do it.”

“Well, yeah, but, I mean. You want me to chop something?”

Castiel shoots him a glare, undermined by the fact that he’s grinning. 

“What are you making?” Dean wonders, leaning as far into the kitchen as he dares.

“I’m making Basil Walnut Ravioli. Me and Gilda made it yesterday, I think you’ll like it.”

“You’re making it from  _ scratch _ ?”

Castiel grins wider, nodding. He’s got a lot of strange ingredients spread out on the kitchen table and Dean has no idea when or where he got them. He’s even got a pasta maker with a frankly adorable little hand crank.

He mixes the pasta dough fairly quickly, only a few ingredients and he’s rolling it into a ball and cutting it into sections that he then rolls back out. Then the dough goes through the pasta machine so that it’s completely flat and very, very smooth. There’s more rolling, and folding, and the pasta goes through the machine a second time.

Castiel smoothly dices an onion and a clove of garlic, and Dean is amazed at the skill in his dexterous fingers. The onion and garlic get cooked in oil, and the smell wafts through the apartment. Dean’s stomach growls loudly.

Dried porcine gets hydrated and mixed with the onions and garlic, some salt, walnuts, and spinach in a food processor that definitely isn't Dean’s. 

The greenish-brown paste that this makes doesn’t look particularly appetizing, but it smells amazing. Castiel rolls the paste into small, even sized balls, taking great care to make sure that each one is symmetrical. These dollops go onto the sheets of pasta dough, two to a row. Another sheet of pasta gets set gently over top, pinched here and there so that each ball has its own little pod.

Castiel pulls a tool from somewhere that looks a little like a pizza cutter, but has a wavy blade, and cuts the pasta into ravioli shapes with a steady hand. All of the little raviolis go into a big pan of water that’s boiling happily on the stove, until they’re thoroughly cooked. He separates them onto two plates and gives them a drizzle of olive oil, and a sprinkle of pine nuts, pepper, and basil.  

All of the dishes go quickly into the sink, and Castiel sets the plates down side-by-side on the table.

“Come try it!” He says, vibrating with excitement. 

“Oh, so  _ now  _ I can come into the kitchen?”

“Dean!”

The chair next to Castiel’s has never been so inviting, and Dean feels such simple happiness as he sits down that he can’t explain, he doesn’t know. How can he feel such happiness just from sitting beside another person, sharing a meal made with care and love. He spears a ravioli on his fork and consumes it with gusto, ready to extol its virtues whether it’s any good or not. Fortunately, it is.

“Holy shit.” He says, mouth full of ravioli, “This is really good.”

“I  _ told  _ you!”

Dean laughs, sputtering ravioli over the table. 

“Oh my  _ god _ .” Castiel huffs, “You’re a barbarian.” 

Dean sticks out his tongue, covered in half-chewed ravioli. 

“You’re disgusting.”

“You like it.” Dean accuses.

 

Bowling in a stain upon the earth. It’s a horrible, tortuous pastime and Dean would rather be doing almost anything else. Unfortunately, Sam loves bowling. 

“This place is the worst.” Dean complains, “It smells like feet.”

“I like it.” Castiel decides, eyeing his new multicolored bowling shoes.

Dean sighs, “Well, you both have terrible taste.”

“You just hate it because you always lose.” Sam points out.

“I always lose because it’s a dumb game.”

“You’re such a spoilsport.” Says Charlie.

The Hearth Ridge Bowling Alley is largely deserted because it’s Monday night and only idiots do something as terrible as bowling on a Monday night, in Dean’s opinion. There are a couple of other families, but they’re at lanes far down at the other end of the building. 

Their party is made up of Sam and Jess, Charlie and Gilda, Dean, Castiel, and a very pregnant Anna. They’ve got a prime lane, right by the kitchen, and that’s the only thing keeping Dean here. That, and the excitement on Castiel’s face. Castiel has never been bowling before, and there’s no way Dean is going to deny him something like this. He’s got a new pair of dark jeans that Sam brought for him, and a Game of Thrones t-shirt that he definitely doesn’t understand. Bowling shoes planted firmly on the floor, he looks just like any other guy. A little nerdy, maybe, and especially cute, but normal. His ability to adapt is flooring. 

He is anxious though, Dean can tell. He’s digging his thumbnail into the flesh of his wrist, it’s something he does when his anxiety acts up. Dean throws his arm around Castiel’s shoulders and crowds closer to him, hoping to ease the man’s discomfort. To his relief, Castiel melts against him, leaning his head on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean turns his head and asks very quietly, “You doin’ okay?”

Castiel nods. “Yes, just- it’s a new place. You know.”

“Well, I got you.” Dean says, rubbing up and down Castiel’s forearm, “You need anything? A drink? Something to eat?”

Castiel hesitates, and Dean sees his fingers twitch.

“What do you want?”

It’s times like these, when he’s already nervous, that Castiel tends to revert back just a bit. He ducks his head. 

“Whatever’s easiest.” He mumbles.

“Hey,” Dean says, thumb in the inside of Castiel’s elbow, “Everything here is easy. You’re not putting anybody out.”

“You already payed for me to play-”

“No, no no. Come on, we’ve talked about this. You don’t need to worry about that.”

Castiel takes a deep breath, glancing around to make sure none of their group are watching. 

“I  _ am  _ worrying though.”

“Okay. Look, you work for me all the time. You help me out so much that I don’t have to hire anybody else in the store, and that saves me a ton of money. I don’t want you to worry about that, okay? Just have fun.”

Castiel swallows, rubbing his palms on the knees of  his jeans in another nervous gesture. “Sorry.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry for.” Dean gives Castiel’s shoulder a squeeze, “Just- whatever you want, okay?”

Castiel nods, but the tension in his shoulders shows his lie. 

“Okay, how about this,” Dean tries, “Pizza or wings?”  
  
Castiel closes his eyes and takes another deep breath, “Wings.”

“Barbecue or Orange Glazed?”

Another breath, “Orange Glazed.”

“Celery, yes or no?”

Castiel makes a face, “No.”

“Okay, there we go.” Dean pats Castiel on the knee, “We got it, see?”

“Okay,” Says Castiel, “Okay.”

Dean leans forward and presses his lips gently to Castiel’s temple. “I’ll get you some food.”

It’s not a long walk, and Dean much prefers to be leaning on the counter of the dilapidated bowling alley cafe than actually playing the blasted game. He orders Castiel a drink as well and then decides to just wait there until the food gets done. From his spot, he can see his group well, and he likes to watch the way they all interact with each other. 

Sam is flirting outrageously with Jess, as he’s want to do. Charlie and Gilda are on either side of Castiel, talking to him. Anna… Anna is waddling her way toward him. 

She’s a little out of breath when she finally reaches the kitchen, and she leans heavily on the counter next to Dean.

“That’s a long way.” She pants.

“Miles.” Says Dean. 

“I want to have a chat with you.” She says once she’s caught her breath, “But I can never seem to get you alone.”

“Is is serious?”

Anna squares her shoulders, “Yes. I want to know, what are your intentions toward my brother?”

Dean feels his stomach fill with ice. “What do you mean?” He hedges.

“I mean: what’s your relationship with him? Is it sexual?”

“It’s not sexual.” Dean assures her quickly. 

“Romantic?”

Dean opens his mouth to deny that too, but then he glances back over to where the man is sitting and the words sit heavy on his tongue. The nature of his relationship with Castiel is still undefined. They’re friends, surely, but what else? Is there anything at all? What about that kiss? It’s a minefield he doesn’t want to walk over, afraid his emotions with be blasted to smithereens.

“I don’t know.” He says finally, “But i’d never do anything he didn’t want me to do.”

Anna stares at him, her eyes narrowed. “If you do anything to hurt him, i’ll kill you. Do you understand me?”

Dean nods quickly, surprised at the direction the conversation has taken, but understanding of these things that siblings must do. 

“I would never do anything to hurt him.”

“See that you don’t.” She says, face relaxing. She turns her back toward the counter, shifting her stance, and Dean sees her grimace. 

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, just tired.” She insists.

“You want to sit back down?”

She nods, looking more uncomfortable, and Dean waits for her to give him the go-ahead to take her arm and help her back over to the chairs. 

The game has already started, Sam is showing Castiel how to bowl. Castiel has got a sparkly blue bowling ball and, after taking a few tries to warm up, almost immediately gets a strike.

“Is that good?” He wonders.

“Good?!” Sam pulls at the roots of his hair, “Cas, you’re a natural!”

“Hmm.” Says Castiel.

“Oh my god, we could start a  _ team _ !”

As if on cue, everyone groans at this well-worn speech. 

“None of you are invited!” Sam points accusingly at the rest of the group, “Me and Cas will be our own team and it’ll be great!”

“You can’t be a bowling team with only two people.” Says Charlie.

“Why must you crush my dreams, she-witch?”

“Just  _ witch _ works, thanks.”

“I think i’m offended.” Says Dean, right before Sam throws a shoe at him. 

Castiel’s wings are done ten minutes later, and it’s a wonder the group hasn’t been kicked out yet. It may or may not have something to do with the fact that Dean used to date the owner, Benny, and they’re still close friends. Nevertheless, they’d have been kicked out of anywhere else by now. 

Castiel has worked up an appetite by this time, and sets into his wings with the fervor of a starving man. All traces of his previous apprehension are gone, he’s having  _ fun _ . It lifts Dean’s heart and his spirits, to have his friend be so joyful and close. To have him feel safe, sure, and protected, is what Dean really wants, and here it is in front of him. Castiel grins wide, wing sauce at the corner of his mouth, and Dean thinks that he couldn’t be happier. This is something that brings him pure and infinite joy, and he wants to have that for as long as he possibly can. 

 

The cat is waiting for them when they get home, mewling plaintively at the door.

“Did you think we’d abandoned you?” Castiel asks her, scooping her from her place on the floor and cradling her to his chest. 

“Mrow.” Says Windy.

“I would never leave you, darling.” He assures her. 

She begins to purr happily, nuzzling under his chin and digging her sharp little claws into the fabric of his shirt. 

Dean reaches over to give her a scratch under the chin, and she purrs louder.

“Did you have a good time?” He asks Castiel.

“I had a  _ very  _ good time, Dean.”

“Hey, that’s awesome. I wasn’t sure you would, ‘cause it’s such a lame game, but turns out you’re really good at it, huh?”  
  
“I’m sorry you didn’t have a good time, Dean.” Castiel frowns.

“What? No way, I had a great time. It’s nice to see you having fun. Just ignore me, i’m a crabby old man.”

Castiel grins. “You  _ are  _ a crabby old man.”

“Whoa, hey, no need to agree with me.”

Castiel squints, “I think I see some gray hairs…”

“Oh you do  _ not _ , you little asshole.”

“Don’t get excited, Dean, you know it’s not good for your blood pressure.” Castiel laughs.

“That’s it, you’re not hanging out with Sam anymore. He’s obviously a terrible influence.”

“So grumpy.” Castiel says, pressing his face into Windy’s fur, “Is it the menopause?”

“That doesn’t even- jesus christ, get out of here.”

But Castiel is laughing, and Dean is too, and instead of leaving Castiel comes close enough to lay his head against Dean’s chest. The cat squirms between them in Castiel’s arms, fighting for a better position.

It’s this way that their second kiss happens, when Castiel raises his head and looks at Dean. He’s shining with happiness and contentment and it’s the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen. It makes his heart as full as its ever been, rising up through his throat and spilling out of his mouth as a jumble of words.

“You nerd.” He says, “I love you.”

Castiel just looks at him, searching his face for something, Dean doesn’t know what. “I love you too.” He says after a while, and it seems like it’s a little difficult for him to say. But then he’s leaning forward just a little, pressing his soft lips to Dean’s. 

Maybe it’s all the joy he’s seen today, maybe it’s Anna’s interrogation about his relationship with Castiel; maybe it’s the fact that Castiel is genuinely his friend and starting arguing with him, standing up for himself, teasing him. Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t  _ really  _ view Castiel as a ward anymore, but more as a roommate. He can’t bring himself to pull back. He closes his eyes, content to feel the brush of Castiel’s mouth against his own. Then, he kisses back.

Castiel tastes like Orange Glaze wing sauce and happiness, and when Dean kisses him back he smiles. Dean can feel Castiel’s smile against his mouth, and how strange is that? How wonderful that something as simple as a kiss could bring them both such joy.

When the cat starts to protest, Dean pulls back, and he feels that familiar twinge of guilt. 

“Oh boy.” He sighs, “Um. Look. We shouldn’t- we shouldn't do this.” He gestures between the two of them.

“Why not?” Castiel asks.

“Because it’s like- i’m your caretaker, you know? It’s- i’m taking advantage of the situation-”

“You’re not!” Castiel protests, “I’m not a  _ child _ . I’m an adult, and I kissed  _ you _ .”

“Yeah. I, uh. I don’t know, I just feel like, with you being my dependant and everything… it just sits wrong, you know?”

Castiel purses his lips, and Dean can tell he’s getting frustrated. “You just told me earlier that I shouldn’t worry about money.”

“Yeah, not in  _ that context _ .”

“So… so if I wasn’t dependant on you, I could kiss you?”

“I mean- what is it you want? Do you just want to kiss or is it- do you want a relationship? Do you want… what  _ do  _ you want?”

“I don’t- I don’t  _ know _ , okay? I just thought… i’d like to figure it out with you.”

Dean takes a breath to steady himself, it doesn’t work. “I just don’t think we can.”

“What if I get a job?”

“What?”

“What if- what if I  _ wasn’t  _ dependant on you. Would you think about it?”

“I mean- yeah. I guess so.”

Castiel squares his shoulders, his mouth is set into a firm line. “Okay.” He says, “Well. That’s what i’ll do then.” He turns on heel and exits the room, leaving Dean feeling more than a little unbalanced. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I probably won't do *too* many more chapters, although I'll try my best not to rush it. The reason is, I want to work on my own original stories!  
> I've been a lot more active on my writing blog ([writerlydays](https://writerlydays.tumblr.com/)) and i'd really like to have time to devote to my own things.  
> p.s.  
> if you're a writer yourself, we should be friends.
> 
> hugs,  
> Grace


	9. Chocolate Salted Caramel Pretzel Cookies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a short chapter, feels a little bit like a timestamp to me, honestly

The paved sidewalk beneath Castiel’s feet is scorching hot, he can feel it through the soles of his sneakers and see it in the waves of heat that rise off of the ground. He imagines that if he walked on it barefoot he’d be able to hear the sizzle of his skin.

“I can do this.” He whispers to himself, although he’s not entirely sure it’s true.

It’s not as if it’s a difficult task he’s about to undergo, in fact he’s pretty sure it’ll go fine, but he still finds himself irrationally nervous.

The walk to Sweet Thoughts Bakery takes seconds, but he’s already shaking by the time he gets there. The bell above the door seems extra loud, and the shop isn’t crowded but Castiel is feeling claustrophobic. Maybe this was a mistake, he thinks, he’s never had this kind of reaction to the shop before, but maybe he just can’t handle it anymore.

“Cas!” Charlie greets him as he comes through the door. She comes around the counter to meet him, smiling wide. “Ready for your first day?”

He manages to nod tightly, hoping his smile is convincing and she doesn’t notice how his hands are trembling.

“Let’s get you an apron!” She says.

Castiel knows that, as jobs go, Sweet Thoughts is not a brave choice. It’s the safest choice, in fact, but it’s really all he can handle at the moment. When he’d come to Charlie to ask for a job, there had been a moment of sick dread when he’d been  _ sure  _ she’d turn him down, he’s a mess and why would she want him there? Of course, she’d been more than a little enthusiastic about it. 

Now here he is, his first day of official work  _ ever _ . He thinks he might throw up.

Back in the kitchen, Charlie presents him with a hot pink apron to cover his clothes and a hairnet. Gilda is there, mixing dough, and her presence works to calm his mind. 

“Morning, sweetheart!” She says, coming forward to kiss him on the cheek and get flour all over his shirt.

“Good morning.”

“How are you feeling?”

Castiel glances sideways at Charlie, who smiles encouragingly. 

“Um. A little nervous.”

“That’s okay,” Gilda tells him, wrapping her arm around his middle and pulling him to her side. She smells like cookies and her warmth is a comfort that he can’t quite explain. “On my first day of my first job, I got so nervous I passed out.”

“You  _ passed out _ ?!”

“It was a waitressing job. I was eighteen, fresh out of school, and I kept dropping things and getting everyone’s order wrong. Finally this customer started yelling at me and I just… got so upset that I passed out.”

“Oh my god.” Says Castiel, flabbergasted that someone as calm and collected as Gilda would pass out because someone yelled at her. He understands though, he’d probably do the same thing.

“So as long as you don’t pass out today, we’ll call it a success.”

“I’ll try.” Castiel promises.

“I think you’ll do fine.” Gilda tells him, kissing him on the cheek once more before pulling away to shoo Charlie out of the kitchen.

“Go on, let us cook, you’re too beautiful to be back here, it’s distracting.”

Charlie blows her a kiss and sweeps back out into the front of the shop. In the calm quiet of the warm kitchen, with flour on the counter and the smells of baking coming from everywhere, he feels better. He feels calmer. 

“Okay,” Says Gilda, clapping her hands together, “You want to get started?”

“Okay. What should I do?”

“Well, I figured you’d be happiest back here in the kitchen, and i’ve been needing a hand back here anyway, so I thought you could help me bake. Does that sound alright?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“So we’re going to make some Chocolate Salted Caramel Pretzel Cookies, they’re a really big seller.”

“Chocolate… caramel…”

“I know, it’s a long name. They’re  _ really  _ good, though.”

“Okay, how do we start?”

They start by mixing flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt in a big bowl. The cocoa powder somehow gets everywhere, as does the flour. Castiel is sure that he has some on his face, and Gilda has managed to get it all over her elbows. Butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla extract, and brown sugar go in a second bowl, and Castiel manages to sneak a few tastes of the sweet mixture before they add the eggs, while Gilda pretends not to notice. 

Slowly they add the dry ingredients, mixing thoroughly as they do. Then the pretzel bits and chocolate chips go into the bowl, but not before Gilda stuffs several handfuls into her mouth and encourages Castiel to do the same.

“You’re going to make me fat.” Castiel laughs.

“You’ll still be cute.” Gilda assures him. 

Together they roll the cookie dough into balls, and insert little squares of caramel inside. All the little balls go onto trays, and Castiel gives up trying to count how many they’ve made. Sea salt gets sprinkled on top of each one, and into the big industrial ovens they go.

Castiel leans back against the counter and sighs. 

“Doing okay?” Asks Gilda.

“Yes. This is… fun. I’m enjoying it.”

“ _ And  _ you’re getting paid for it.”

“Yes. Thank you again, by the way, for hiring me.”

Gilda shakes her head, “You help me all the time anyway, it might as well be official. What prompted this, anyway? Did you just wake up and decide to get a job?”

Castiel does not want to tell Gilda, as he’s not really sure of his own intentions yet. He’s not sure what exactly he feels for Dean, or whether it’s good or bad. He only knows that he’d like to find out, but he’s not ready to share this information. 

Instead, he says, “I want to be more independent.” Which is close enough to the truth, “I don’t want Dean to have to take care of everything.”

“Good for you, hon. I think you’ll really like it here.”

“I think so too.”

The day is mostly uneventful in a pleasant sort of way. Castiel bakes with Gilda, and little by little he’s introduced to the rest of the staff. Usually he avoids them, they seem like nice enough people but sometimes he just can’t deal with new acquaintances. Today, though, as someone who officially works there, he finally meets them. 

Meg is about a head shorter than him, she’s got wavy hair and a bad dye job. He finds her abrasive, at first, but by the end of the day he’s pretty sure that they’re friends and he can’t quite figure out how it happened. 

Garth is… chatty. Endlessly cheerful and  _ very  _ talkative. Castiel, who likes to keep his own feelings close to his chest, finds his openness more than a little disturbing. 

Becky Rosen’s most defining trait is that she asks about Sam near 50 times during the day, and won’t stop talking about his arms. It’s worrying. 

By the end of his shift, he’s exhausted. He’s talked to more people today than he has in probably weeks. He heads back to the apartment covered in flour and sugar, carrying a plate of cookies that Gilda let him have. 

Dean is still at the shop, so Castiel leaves the cookies on the kitchen table and goes to change into clean clothes before settling down on the couch with a book. He’s reading The Hound of the Baskervilles, and finding it endlessly captivating and more than a little terrifying. 

He’s so wrapped up in his book that he doesn’t even notice as the sun shifts across the sky and the shadows grow long. Before he knows it, Dean is home.

He looks tired when he comes in the door, but he brightens when he sees Castiel. 

“Hey!”

“Hi, Dean.”

“How’d your first day go?” Dean asks, falling onto the couch next to Castiel.

“It went well. I really enjoyed it.”

Dean grins, “I’m glad. And I know they’ll look after you over there.”

“I don’t need to be looked after.” Says Castiel.

Dean gives him a Look that he studiously ignores.

“Alright.” Dean says after a while, “Well, I'm glad you had fun. Did you make any new friends?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure yet. How was  _ your  _ day?”

“It was okay,” Dean says, and then, “I missed you.”

“Missed me?”

“Yeah, it was weird not having you around. I kept… kept going to tell you things and then remembering you were gone. I missed talking to you.”

“Oh.” Says Castiel, “Well, I missed talking to you too.” 

“Oh, well,” Dean goes quiet. 

“This was your idea.” Castiel reminds him.

“Yeah, yeah I know. And I stand by it. It just sucks a little bit.”

They haven't really talked about their agreement, if that's what it was. They haven't talked about what will happen now, if anything at all. Things are more or less the same, except that Dean seems more hesitant to initiate physical contact than before, which Castiel finds frustrating. Does Dean like him or doesn't he? Sometimes Castiel just can’t figure it out. 

“You okay?” Dean wonders, and Castiel realizes that he’s shaking very slightly.

“Yes.” He says, tightening his hands into fists on his knees.

“Cas-”

“I’m fine.” Says Castiel, feeling suddenly very frustrated. He’s not really sure why, but he knows that he needs to be someplace else. “I’m going to bed.”

“Oh. Uh. I was going to make spaghetti.” 

“I’m not hungry. There’s cookies on the table if you want them.”

He gets up and goes to his room, leaving Dean perplexed on the couch. He feels bad, maybe he’s being a jerk, but he’s frustrated. This is something that’s very important to him and Dean is avoiding it like the plague.

He’s just slumped down onto his bed when he feels a presence, a chill, and his brother materializes at the edge of the bed and sits down like he owns the place.

“Hello Four.” Castiel sighs, too exhausted to even get upset that his dead brother is still floating around, unable to move on. 

“Castiel.” Says Four, looking uncharacteristically serious, “This isn’t working.”

“What’s not working?”

Four jerks his head toward the living room.

“You were  _ listening _ ?”

Four shrugs, an impressive feat for someone so incorporeal, “I was in the room.”

Castiel huffs, “It’s not my fault that Dean won’t talk to me about it.”

“You’re not talking about it either.”

“I don’t know how to bring it up.”

“Maybe he doesn’t either.”

“What if he just doesn’t like me after all?” Castiel wonders, “What if he changed his mind?”

“He does like you, and he didn’t change his mind.”

“How would you know?”

Four throws his hands up in exasperation, “Are you just going to sit around and worry about it forever?”

“Maybe.” Castiel says petulantly.

“You could  _ talk to him _ .”

“Since when are you an expert, Four?”

“You see a lot when you’re dead. Time is… different. It’s easier to get perspective.”

Castiel leans back against his pillows and sighs again, “I don’t know. It’s hard. Feeling things is hard.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Why are you  _ here _ ?”

“Just lookin’ out for you.”

“You could move on.”

“Don’t know how.”

“Would you want to, though, if you could?”

Four is silent for a while. He scratches his nose. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s next.”

“I never thought you’d be scared of a new adventure.”  
  
“Hmm.” Says Four.

Four sticks around for a while to talk, and then, very suddenly, he vanishes, leaving Castiel with a chill and an uneasy mind. 

“Weird.” Castiel says to himself, thinking about everything Four has said. He’s loathe to admit that his brother might have had a point, because he doesn’t  _ want  _ to bring up the subject. He wants everything to be magically sorted out without ever having to bring it up.

Four is right, he’s not talking about it either. It’s messy and complicated and he hates things that are messy and complicated. But he likes Dean, he  _ loves  _ Dean, and he feels like they could be something great. 

He can hear Dean cooking, if he listens, and he feels suddenly very ashamed of the way he’s acting. He’s an adult, and if he wants people to treat him like an adult then he has to act like one. He takes a deep breath and gets back up, making his way slowly to the kitchen, feeling like he’s going to the gallows.

He hesitates inside the door, Dean’s back is to him, it’s not too late to turn around and go back to his room.

“I’m sorry.” He says instead.

Dean starts, turning quickly and nearly upending a pot of boiling water. “What?”

“I’m sorry. For- for the way I've been acting today. I’m just- just confused and frustrated, I guess.”

“Okay.” Says Dean, reaching over to turn the stove down before turning back to Castiel, “I understand. It’s- it’s all new territory for you.”

“I just want to know how you feel, and what we’re  _ doing  _ here, and I feel like it’s never going to get sorted out.”

Dean sighs, scratching his head and then putting his hands on his hips. “Yeah, I know. It’s just- it’s all really complicated.”

“Do you like me or not?”

“Yeah, Cas, of course I like you.” Dean frowns and scrubs at his chin, “I’m just in a weird position. I’m in- you know- a position of power, and i’m not the kind of guy that abuses that.”

“I got a job.” Castiel reminds him, “I’m making my own money, i’m an  _ adult _ , I- I’m my own person and I know that I don’t have to listen to everything you say. You’re… you’re my  _ friend _ , and I trust you.”

“Aw, hell.”

“I know i’m- i’m all messed up, but i’m not  _ stupid _ . I know when people are using me and when they aren’t, and you’re not. You never have, and I don’t think you ever will.”

Dean stares at him. He looks down at his feet, back up to Castiel. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright. Well,” Dean shrugs, “How do you want to do this? You wanna- you wanna go  _ out _ , or-?”

“I don’t know. Can we just… spend time together, but maybe I- I kiss you once in awhile?”

Some of the tension goes out of Dean’s shoulders, and he smiles, “Yeah, Cas, that sounds fine.”

Dean’s spaghetti is good, and Castiel tells him so half a dozen times as they devour the whole mess of it. He’s nervous, but also feels as if a huge weight has been lifted from his chest. Things are normal, sort of. Things are… out in the open.

They clean the dishes together, in companionable silence, hands touching briefly as Dean hands Castiel clean dishes to dry.

When it's done they sit together on the couch to watch television, close like they always do. Castiel burrowed into Dean's side, head on Dean's shoulder. This time, though, Dean covers Castiel's hand with his own, on the couch between their knees, threading their fingers together. Castiel tips his head up and Dean meets him with a gentle, chaste kiss. It's nice, it soothes something ragged inside Castiel, Dean's tenderness. He's gentle, and he can be trusted. This, Castiel knows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chocolate Salted Caramel Pretzel Cookies](https://www.twopeasandtheirpod.com/chocolate-salted-caramel-pretzel-cookies/)


	10. Lavender and Rose Quartz Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I've come to the realization that the chapters from here on out are probably all going to be pretty short. Not only am I working six days a week, i'm also trying to study for my ged and get ready for a move across the country in a few months. It's a lot of stress and i'm kind of freaking out because I need to have my ged before we move but i'm not even near ready for the test.  
> Anyway, my point is that I don't really have a lot of extra time and these chapters will be shorter from now on.  
> Thank you all for reading and being patient with me!
> 
>  **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:**  
>  \- self harm and descriptions of self harm  
> \- a brief allusion to past non-con  
> (but i promise it's an overall fluffy chapter! many kitty-cat cuddles!)

There are times, a lot of times, when things seem unreal. When Castiel feels like this new part of his life must be some sort of dream. Times when he's full and warm; when he's curled up on the couch with a book and a mug of Dean's Lavender and Rose Quartz infused tea; when he's sitting between Sam and Jess at the bowling alley and they're both laughing; when he’s in the Sweet Thoughts kitchen; when Dean holds his hand.

It doesn't feel right, doesn't feel like something that would be happening to him, that  _ should  _ be happening to him. He doesn't deserve this, things this good never happened to him in eighteen years, why should they now? He  _ must  _ be dreaming, and he feels in these moments the profound fear that he's about to wake up and find Father Adler standing over his bed.

So, he's developed a habit. A habit that helps him know that this is real life.

When he’s unsure, when everything feels too good to be true, he relies on pain to show him. He remembers vividly the way Anna used to pinch him viciously to keep him awake when it was their turn to keep watch over the cows at Brother Corinias’. It was the only thing that kept him from passing out right there on the ground, and now it’s the only thing that assures him he’s already awake. 

He pinches his thighs until they bruise, he digs into them with forks and bottlecaps and his fingernails until they bleed, because the pain reminds him that this is real. This is all really happening, it’s not a dream, this is his. 

It works fairly well for a very, very long time, until, one day, it doesn’t. He’s not thinking about it, about hiding the bruises and scars and scabs on his legs. It’s not really something he actively hides, it’s just something he does. He’s wearing a t-shirt and boxers as he walks,  yawning and sleepy-eyed, into the kitchen. Dean is there, eggs and bacon on the stove, humming softly to himself. 

He turns toward the sound of Castiel shuffling in. “Morning Cas.” He says.

There’s a moment where he sort of takes stock of Castiel, to make sure he’s all there. Then, the double-take. His eyes go wide and his spatula clatters noisily in the pan.

“What the fuck- what is that?” He asks sharply, coming toward Castiel with purpose.

Castiel trusts Dean, knows that Dean would never hurt him, but it’s impossible for him to stay still as this large, suddenly angry man stalks toward him. He shies backward, heart picking up to a steady pounding beat, and flinches when he smacks into the kitchen wall.

“Who did that?” 

“I- I-” Castiel stutters, he can’t get his thoughts straight, he feels lightheaded.

Dean pulls back a little, takes a deep breath, and rubs a hand over his face. When he speaks again, it’s with forced calmness. “I’m sorry.” He says, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m not mad at you. I just… would like to know what happened. Did someone hurt you? Did you- did you  _ fall _ ? I don’t-”

“I-” Castiel tries again. He swallows his fear and the bile rising in his throat. His first instinct is to lie, to say that he fell, but he shouldn’t lie. “I did it.”

Dean just looks at him, for so long that Castiel shuts his eyes to keep the world from spinning. This is it, this is the end. He’s finally done something so terrible that Dean is  _ mad _ . What he’s done, he doesn’t know. But he’s certainly done something. 

“Cas,” Dean’s voice is soft, “Why’d you do that?”

“I- my head hurts.” Castiel tells him, because he can’t think around the sharp pains behind his eyes, the way he can’t breathe.

“Alright, it’s okay. Let’s sit down a minute.”

He guides Castiel into the living room, to the soft couch. He sits with him and helps him remember to breathe until the world begins to right itself.

To his great surprise, Dean shifts closer until he can wrap his arms around Castiel in a hug. His wide palms are warm spots on Castiel’s back. He turns his head to press his lips against Castiel’s temple, then draws back. His eyes go down to Castiel’s thighs, even more exposed now that he’s sitting and his boxers have ridden up. His legs are a mess of old scars and new wounds, and Castiel tries to cover them with his hands to hide the damage. 

He feels suddenly very ashamed, although he can’t say why. What has he done wrong? This is something that helps him when things don’t feel real, so why does it seem like he’s in trouble?  
  
Dean is quiet for a very long time, just looking and Castiel like he’s trying to see inside of him. Finally, he speaks.

“Cas,” He says, “Why did you do that to yourself?”

Castiel’s fingers splay on his thighs, slowly tracing the patterns and lines. 

“It helps me.” He says simply.

“That’s not- it’s not healthy. You can’t just hurt yourself like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because- because you’re  _ hurting yourself _ .”

Castiel shakes his head. “Sometimes I get confused.” He admits, “And I- I just want to know what’s real. The pain helps me know what’s real and what isn’t.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth. “Okay.” He takes a breath, “Okay. Um. Wow, I don’t know… how to deal with this.”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel says, fighting against the rising tide of emotion choking him, fear and worry and regret. 

“No, no, you don’t need to be sorry. It’s not-  _ i’m  _ sorry.” He takes another breath, “It’s your body. It’s your- but look, i’m sure there are other things you can do. Things that don’t- don’t  _ hurt  _ you. These…” He reaches out, as if to touch Castiel’s leg, but stops just shy, “They look painful.”

Castiel shrugs. It’s difficult, saying the things he feels. Expressing himself has never been something he was encouraged to do until he came here. It’s still new. It’s still hard.

“Doesn’t hurt that much.” He says, because they don’t. The wounds hurt some, yes, but it’s a scrape compared to other pain he’s endured. 

“What if it gets infected?”

Castiel looks down again. Yes, some of the cuts do look red around the edges. He’s not sure, it’s not something he’d thought about. What if he  _ does  _ get infected? 

“Oh.”

“Look, i’ll call Pam in the morning and maybe see if she can take an emergency appointment.”

Anxiety is twisting in Castiel’s gut, and he wants to hide. He needs to hide these mistakes that he didn’t know he was making, he presses his fingers further into his thighs and fights the urge to scratch at them. 

“Sorry.”

“Cas, Cas- hey.” Dean’s hand slides over Castiel’s on his thigh, “I promise this isn’t something you need to be sorry about. I just- I want you to be okay. And I want you to be healthy, so i’m hoping Pam can help. Is that- is that okay with you? Would you be okay talking to her?”

Castiel closes his eyes and thinks. He does like Pam, and she’s helped him a lot. They meet twice a week, and he trusts her. She’s a good person, and he doesn’t think she’ll judge him, not after everything else he’s told her. 

In fact, even though he’s panicking, he instinctively does some of the things she’s taught him over time. He breathes deep, he counts his breaths. It never fixes things, but it helps him focus. 

“I… I’ll talk to Miss Barnes.” 

“Okay.”

“Do you think she’ll be upset with me?”

“No, no. It’s not- no one is mad at you. I’m just worried.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Castiel nods. Dean’s hand curls around his own, holding it gently. He leans into Dean, a solid presence as always. 

“Tell you what, we’re gonna have a chill day.” Dean announces, relaxing back against the couch, “We’re not gonna do a single thing all day. How’s that sound?”

“Alright.” Castiel agrees. He’s feeling emotionally exhausted and more than a little vulnerable, and all he wants is to sleep. 

To his great relief, Dean honestly doesn’t want to do a single thing. They bundle up on the couch with blankets and mugs of hot coco. It doesn’t matter that it’s ninety degrees outside, or that it’s the middle of the day. Neither of them have any place to be but here, on this couch. Castiel leans into Dean’s side, twining their legs together. Under the blanket, no one can see the mess he’s made of his thighs. 

His head is tucked into Dean’s shoulder, the man’s breath ghosting over his temple smelling of sage and thyme. The fabric of his shirt smells of detergent, and Castiel lets these myriad scents wash over him, soothing his anxieties. 

He can’t remember having ever smelled those particular smells before coming here, and this thought grounds him more than he thought it would.

They’ve only just cuddled up when Windy decides to join them from her place on the windowsill. She meows plaintively until Dean reaches down to pick her up, even though they all know full-well that she can get up herself. After much kneading and sniffing around, she finally curls up on Castiel’s lap with her head on his hand. It’s such a pure experience, and he knows it’s real. He can feel her fur under his hand, feel her tiny claws pricking at his skin when she stretches. She’s purring, a small motor right there on his lap. 

 

It’s quite a bit later in the day when Dean leaves the couch to use the bathroom and comes back with a black sharpie. 

“Can I try something?” He asks.  
  
“Sure.” Says Castiel.

Dean takes Castiel’s arm into his lap and begins to draw, in a steady hand, a series of interlocking lines and curves. It takes Castiel longer than he’d like to admit to figure out that he’s drawing sigils. They climb up Castiel’s arm from his wrist to his elbow, and then Dean starts on the other arm. When he’s finished, he says, 

“Okay, now clap your hands.”

Castiel claps hard, imaging the force as energy rippling up his arms through the sigils. He can feel them, if he tries, points of warmth on his skin. 

“What are they for?” He wonders.

Dean begins slowly, pressing his fingertip to the center of each sigil and naming its purpose.

“I know that i’m real.” He names the first, “I know what’s real and what isn’t.”

_ I know that i’m safe _ , is another. 

_ I know that i’m loved, _

_ I know that i’m protected, _

_ I know that i’m wonderful, _

_ I know that I deserve happiness, _

_ I know that I deserve peace, _

_ Everything is alright, _

Dean tells him the purpose of each and every one, and when he’s done Castiel is crying, but he’s not really sure why. 

Crystals are collected from their place on the windowsill, and Dean puts rose quartz and amethyst into a small cloth bag and ties it together with a very long cord before looping the whole thing around Castiel’s neck.

“Do you think it will work?” Castiel asks of the crystals, of the sigils.

“It might.” Says Dean. 

He makes Castiel a large mug of black tea with lemon peel, orange peel, and dried cranberries. He kisses him on the eyelids and cleanses the room with lavender smoke. 

“I thought it was a chill day.” Castiel comments. 

“It is, and i’m going to make it as chill for you as I possibly can.”

“Come sit back down.” Castiel pats the cushion next to him, “I’d rather you be here.”

He’s not sure Dean is going to sit down at first, but slowly, Dean comes back. He lets Castiel curl back around him, and together, they are quiet. 

 

Pam is not angry with him. She listens to him quietly and then, when he’s finished, they talk. They talk about what it is about pain that makes him feel awake, about the idea that he might think he deserves it. They talk about a lot, why he does the things he does, and healthier alternatives he might try. He comes away from their session feeling soothed, ready to try her suggested solutions. 

After much experimenting, he finds that putting an ice cube in the crook of his arm has a good effect. It’s a sharp, short-lived pain that grounds him and doesn’t cause any lasting damage.  He feels good. He feels… proud. It feels like an accomplishment somehow, and he doesn’t really know why, but he relishes the feeling. 

When he tells Anna, sitting on the porch swing at the Mills-Hanscum house,  she smiles softly at him and kisses his cheek. Her belly grows more and more rotund every passing week, and she’s developed a habit of calling Castiel every day to tell him about her aches and pains and doctor’s visits. They’re no easier for her than they are for him, but she bares it for the child in her belly. 

Or, as Castiel has only just found out,  _ children. _

“Twins,” Says Anna, voice overflowing with awe, “Two little babies.”

Castiel bites his tongue and doesn’t let anything caustic fall out of his mouth. His sister doesn’t deserve his anger toward what he’s sure must be hellspawn. She’s convinced that they’re a wonderfully heavenly blessing, and who is he to ruin that for her. It’s her body, as he’s been told over and over by Dean, and she’s going to love those children if they  _ were  _ forced upon her. 

“Can you handle it?” Castiel wonders. 

Anna rolls her eyes. “I was taking care of Sister Constance’s  _ eight  _ little monsters when I was ten years old, Castiel. I think I can handle two.”

Well, she’s got a point there. 

“What if they’re monsters?” He blurts, because he can’t help it.

“They don’t feel like monsters.” Says Anna, unoffended. She looks down at her slender hand resting atop the beach ball that is her pregnant belly. She’s wrapped in a gauzy pink sundress, bathed in sunlight, looking for all the world what Castiel always thought Mother Nature might look like. She’s so ethereal now that he’s almost surprised when he can reach out and touch her. 

“What’s with the cat?” She wonders, looking pointedly down at where Windy is sitting on the porch by their feet, licking herself obliviously.

“She’s my familiar.” Says Castiel. It’s more or less true, she follows him everywhere she can and, while he doesn’t think laying on top of his tarot cards or knocking over potions is  _ helping  _ necessarily, he appreciates the thought. 

“Does she help you cast spells?”

“She tries to eat the ingredients.” Close enough. 

“You can teach my babies magic.” Anna says happily, “And make me fat with all your cakes.”

Castiel holds out his arms and she leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Her thick hair billows into his face and cascades down his chest, and he can’t help but think of how frail it used to be. 

Speaking of things that have changed, Five is taking to freedom like a man suddenly able to breathe after years of holding his breath. If they thought he was big before, it’s nothing compared to now. His muscles bulge impressively even though nowadays he’s more likely to be found napping in Jody’s hammock than doing any sort of heavy lifting. His time out doors has given him a healthy, rosy tan and helped him discover a latent love of vegetable gardening. If he’s not found napping in the hammock, he’s probably napping among the tomato plants. 

He doesn’t want to be called Five anymore either, and Castiel can’t blame him one bit. He chooses the moniker “Gadreel” from a book, and that’s that. 

Gadreel joins them on the porch to look out over the sun-drenched yard. He doesn’t sit on the porch swing, it almost pulled loose from the roof last time he did, but lays out on the warm boards and lets Windy climb over him as she pleases. 

“She’s a magic cat?” He wonders, voice deep and molasses slow. He already look half-asleep while Windy attacks his nose.

“Sometimes.” Castiel admits, “Sometimes she’s just a pain.”

“Everything has a price.” Gadreel says sagely.

Anna tsks and prods him with her socked foot. “Go lie in some dirt.” 

Gadreel doesn’t reply, but lays his head down on the cushion of his arms and proceeds to fall asleep before their very eyes.

Castiel closes his eyes as well, reveling in the thought that here, with his sister under his arm and his brother snoring close by, he could sleep peacefully too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Love Your Soul Tea](http://www.pennilesspagan.com/2016/06/love-your-soul-tea.html)  
> [How To Make Crystal Infused Water](https://frommollywithlove.com/2016/12/06/how-to-make-crystal-infused-water/) (ps. not all crystals should be put in water, so be careful)
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me for so long, and for getting caught up in this story with me! I love each and every one of you and the thought that anyone reads this story is amazing!  
> I hope you all have a wonderful week!  
> Hugs,  
> Grace


	11. Sweet Peach Thyme Shortcakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an angsty angsty chapter. I'm sorry, it just happened! But just fyi everything is resolved by the end of the chapter. I guess that's kind of a spoiler but I don't want anyone worrying. 
> 
> **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:**  
>  \- death mentions  
> \- a lot of negativity  
> \- castiel is an Angry Boy  
> \- vomiting

The oven is pre-heated to 400 degrees. Castiel has his very own apron - bought with his own hard-earned money - tied around his waist. It’s a very light blue, with little yellow sunflowers all over it, and he’d known the moment he saw it that it was for him.

He can hear Dean in the living room, doing who-knows-what, but it doesn’t really matter that much. What matters at this moment is the cooking, the food, the magic of taking raw ingredients and turning them into something beautiful.

He’s making biscuits first, mixing flour, sugar, baking soda and salt in a large mixing bowl. He adds butter and buttermilk until everything is combined.

Six large spoonfuls of the sticky batter go on a baking sheet lined with parchment. He brushes each one lovingly with buttermilk and eagerly sprinkles on sugar and almonds.

He slides those into the oven and, in the meantime, begins to heat honey, thyme, vanilla and sea salt in a sauce pan on the stove. The smell of it wafts up and encompasses him, and he experiences a moment of such pure bliss that he can’t even begin to explain. He can’t think a single bad thought. When the mixture comes to a boil he takes it off the stove and goes to pour it over his already sliced peaches.

The whipped cream is easy, he just whips mascarpone and cream together until it begins to form stiff peaks, and that’s that.

When the biscuits come out they each get sliced in half, and the peaches and honey is spooned over top and finished off by a dollop of cream.

When it’s all said and done, he stands back to admire his handiwork. It’s beautiful, if he does say so himself. It smells wonderful, and he’s already salivating.

He leaves them to cool on the table while he quickly cleans up the mess and then wanders into the living room.

He finds Dean sitting cross-legged on the floor, with Four sitting in front of him in the same position. To Castiel’s amazement, they’re talking. He can’t make out their hushed tones, but their faces are serious, and this is worrying.

“Is everything okay?” He asks.

They both turn to look at him. Dean seems startled, but Castiel gets the feeling that Four knew he was there all along.

“Just talking.” Says Four.

Castiel doesn’t miss the way Dean’s eyes shift guiltily away, and he’s not letting it go.

“What’s going on?” He prods.

Dean looks at Four, and Four looks back. A silent conversation passes between them, leaving Castiel feeling frustrated and left out. What is he missing? What are they doing that he can’t be a part of? When did they start conspiring together in the first place?

He keeps his cool, barely, he crosses his arms over his chest and frowns until they’ve worked out whatever is between them.

“Uh,” Says Dean, “Don’t get mad.”

This, of course, puts Castiel immediately on edge. “What?”

“We’re- I mean- we’ve been talking about…” Dean trails off, frowning at avoiding Castiel’s eye. He reaches up to scratch the side of his head and sniff, but he doesn’t say anything more.

“I’m thinking about moving on.” Four says with a sigh.

Very suddenly, there’s a hole where Castiel’s heart should be. It’s like he’s falling, but there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to land, and it isn’t stopping.

“Move on? What are you talking about?”

“You _know_ what i’m talking about.”

“Why- why would you want to do that? I thought you were doing okay.”

Four looks at him for a moment before patting the floor next to him. “Come sit down.”

Castiel comes mechanically over to sit by his brother, still stunned and confused. The air around Four is chilly and slightly distorted, but it’s still his brother.

“Cas,” He says, “You and I have talked about this some, I thought you’d be okay with it.”

Castiel shakes his head and covered his eyes with a palm. “I- I didn’t think you’d actually do it. Talking about it is different…”

“I know.” Four leans closer and sets on icy palm over Castiel’s, “But I think it’s time.”

This is the most baffled Castiel has been in a long time. How could Four do this? _Why_ would Four do this? Isn’t he doing alright? Castiel had been under the impression that he actually _liked_ being a ghost.

“Why?” He asks.

Four shrugs, “What is there for me here?”

“Me!” Castiel almost shouts, unable to keep the hurt from his voice, “And Anna and Gadreel. You’re going to leave us  _again_?”

“Cas, you know it’s not like that.”

“No!” Castiel shouts, getting back to his feet, “You can’t- I can’t do it without you again. I thought you were gone and then you came back! And now you want to leave again?”

Tears spill out of Castiel’s eyes and down his cheeks, his hands are in fists and he can feel his face flushing. He doesn’t even care, he can’t _believe_ this. How is he supposed to lose his brother again? Are they mad?

“Cas,” Says Dean, following Castiel to his feet, “He doesn’t belong here.”

His hands are outstretched and his face is gentle, but Castiel recoils from his touch like he’s been burned.

“Did you tell him to do this?” He feels betrayed like a physical pain.

“Listen, you don’t-”

A sudden chill fills Castiel’s entire body, as if he’s been doused in ice water. Of all people, he never would have expected Dean to do something like this.

“How could you do that?”

“No, Cas, it’s-”

“I can’t _believe_ you.” Castiel takes two quick steps back, pulling him out of range of Dean’s arms, “I can’t believe you would do this.”

“If you’ll sit back down-”

“I don’t want to!” Castiel snaps petulantly, wiping the tears from his eyes, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

He storms off, leaving the two men in the living room. He slams the door to his bedroom behind him, only catching a softly uttered, “Dammit,” from Dean before it closes.

 

There’s a small part of Castiel that’s aware he’s being unreasonable. A tiny voice in the back of his head reminding him that he should _probably_ hear them out. But it’s drowned out by sadness and anger and a growing sense of loneliness.

Why does Four want to leave? Everyone always leaves or dies and it’s too much. It’s too much for Castiel to handle.

He wants to be held, to be kissed gently and told that everything will be okay, but the person he wants to hold him is the one he’s upset with. What’s he supposed to do?

Unable to do anything else, he curls up and cries into his pillow until he’s all cried out. Thankfully, no one knocks on his door, and Four doesn’t materialize in his room. He’s not sure he can handle either of them right now. This is the most upset he’s ever been with Dean, and he’s not sure how to take it.

Eventually, his eyes find the cell phone on his bedside table. It was a gift from Dean, and he mostly uses it to call the Mills-Hanscum household. He reaches out and touches his fingers to the cool screen, and pulls it toward him. When he calls, it’s Jody that answers, and Castiel keeps it together long enough to ask for Anna. As soon as his sister is on the phone, though, he breaks down again.

Whether or not she can understand his cry-babbling, she understands that something is wrong.

“I’m coming over.” She announces, “Will you be okay until I get there?”

Castiel nods, before remembering that she can’t see him. “Yes.” He sniffles.

“I’ll be right there.” And she hangs up.

How she’s going to get there, Castiel has no idea. She gets very anxious walking through town, and she’s heavily pregnant. Maybe she’ll ask Donna to drive her, Castiel thinks. In any case, if she says she’s coming, then she’s coming. Anna always finds a way.

Castiel slips in and out of an uneasy, exhausted sleep for an undetermined amount of time. His mouth feels full of cotton, his eyes prickle painfully, but he doesn’t get up. He’s got a sick, dark feeling inside him, a hopelessness of the sort he hasn’t felt in a long time.

After too long, there’s a knock at his bedroom door. Soft, light, and then immediately the door opens, without waiting for a reply.

It’s only Anna though, followed languidly by Gadreel. She shuts the door swiftly behind them, and goes to Castiel while Gadreel flops down onto the unoccupied side of the bed.

“What happened?” Anna asks, waddling over to the bed and sitting beside Castiel, her hand brushing the hair back from his face.

Castiel was sure that he had no more tears left, but with his sister’s gentle touch he devolves into sobbing once again. Slowly, and with much hiccuping, he tells her about what Four and Dean have been talking about.

Anna and Gadreel know about Four, about his ghost. Sometimes he goes and visits them, they’ve talked, but they were never as close to this particular brother as Castiel was. Nevertheless, they understand his pain. They understand his horror at losing someone he thought he’d got back.

Anna gathers him close - as close as he’ll go before her belly gets in the way - and kisses him on the forehead. Her softness, her gentle hands and calm aura, do a great deal to sooth his pain. To his surprise, Gadreel scoots close and curls himself around Castiel’s back, winding his arm about Castiel’s stomach. Of course, he promptly falls asleep, but the comfort isn’t lost.

With two of his siblings close by him, he doesn’t feel so devastated as before. He’s still incredibly upset, but he isn't so alone in his feelings. He has someone on his side, and this makes a difference.

They lay together for a long time. Anna talks to him a little about Four, but she doesn’t have any special insight into this situation. Still, talking about it helps. Getting things off of his chest feels better, and he’s much too frustrated with Dean to talk to him about any of it.

Eventually, though, the sun starts to set and Anna and Gadreel have to go.

“You can call me anytime.” Anna reminds him, “I’m always home.”

He gets a kiss on the forehead from her, and a bone-crushing hug from Gadreel, and then he’s all alone agian.

His siblings have only been gone about ten minutes when there’s a knock on the door. This time, the person on the other side doesn’t just barge in though. Of course, Dean never does.

“Cas?” Comes his tentative voice from the other side, “Can I come in?”

Castiel is still angry, but he’s also exhausted, and sad, and he wants Dean. “Okay.” He says.

Dean comes in slowly, looking sheepish and carrying a tray of food.

“I made dinner.” He says, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. He looks positively miserable, and Castiel isn’t sure he’s ever seen Dean look so bad.

Maybe it’s this, more than anything else, that has Castiel nodding and slowly sitting up in bed. He finds that, despite his anger, he doesn’t want Dean to be miserable. Everything is very complicated.

Dean sets the tray on Castiel’s side table, and then stands there looking anxious and unsure. It’s such a strange thing to see.

“Thanks.” Says Castiel.

“Yeah.” Says Dean. He puts his hands in his pockets, then takes them out. He looks down at his shoes and up at the ceiling. “Um. Can we talk?”

“I guess we should.” Castiel concedes.

Dean sighs and sits down heavily on the side of the bed. “I’m sorry.” He says, “That wasn’t- it wasn’t how you should have found out. We handled it badly, and I’m not surprised you reacted the way you did.”

“How am I supposed to react to the news that my brother wants to die?”

“Cas, he’s already dead.”

It’s true, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to hear. The words hit him like a blow to the stomach. It’s too much. He can’t handle all of this today, it’s just too much. His stomach rolls, and he swings his feet quickly out of bed. He only gets as far as the hall before he’s vomiting all over the floor.

“Shit,” Dean says, having followed him, “Hey, okay, it’s okay.”

But it’s not okay, everything is too much. “I can’t do this.” He says, throat burning, “I can’t do this.”

“Okay.” Dean agrees, “Let’s- uh, let’s get you in the shower, okay? I’ll clean this up and- and everything will be okay.”

Castiel says nothing, but lets himself be led to the bathroom. Dean helps him undress, but there’s nothing intimate about it. They’re both wrecks, and Castiel has the added bonus of being A Mess. Dean leaves him in his boxers, turns on the shower for him, and goes to clean up his vomit from the hall.

Castiel can barely summon the energy to shed his boxers and climb in, and once he’s there he does nothing but stand under the spray and let it drum on his head. Slowly, everything washes away.

It might be ten minutes, it might be twenty, before Dean comes back and stands just beyond the shower curtain.

“Are you ready to come out?”

Castiel is, but he doesn’t have the energy to say so. He pulls back the curtain and steps on out, meeting a surprised looking Dean who quickly averts his eyes.

Once he’s dressed, Dean tucks him back into bed and tries again.

“I’m so sorry.” He says, “I don’t know why I’m so bad at this. I don’t know- I don’t know how to do this. You know I love you, and I know you love your brother, so… it’s difficult.”

“How would you feel if it happened to Sam?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. The thing is, Four doesn’t want to be here anymore, Cas.”

“Why not?”

“With ghosts, it’s hard. They’re not really here, and they’re not _really_ anywhere else. It doesn’t feel great for them, you know? It doesn’t feel good to just… drift all the time.”

Castiel takes a deep breath and tries to imagine how it must feel. It sounds terrible, if he’s being honest with himself.

“I just don’t want to lose him again.” He whispers.

“I know.” Says Dean, “I don’t want you to. But it’s his decision, and this is what he wants.”

Finally, Castiel leans on Dean. His head goes to Dean’s shoulder, and Dean’s arm goes around his back. Castiel practically melts, this is what he’s been needing all day. Dean’s comforting smell, sage and thyme. The scruff on Dean’s chin against his temple. Dean’s big hands on his skin.

“I’m sorry.” Castiel says, “I’m sorry i’ve been so terrible today.”

“You haven't been.” Dean assures him immediately, “Your reaction was totally justified. You’re having a difficult time.”

“Why does everything have to be so hard?”

Dean sighs, a sound deep from his chest. He’s tired too. “I don’t know.” He admits, “Sometimes things just… really fuckin’ suck. But, you know, it never lasts forever.”

“I know.” Castiel reminds him, he knows full well that things get better. That doesn’t mean it’s not difficult when things are going badly though.

In the end, Castiel does understand. He knows that it’s Four’s decision, and it’s probably for the best, but that doesn’t make it any easier. At least he’s done throwing up.

“Can I-” Castiel starts, takes a breath, tries again, “Can I stay with you tonight? I don’t want to be by myself.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees immediately, “Yeah, of course. Whatever you need.”

So Castiel leaves his bed behind, and he tracks down Windy where she’s sleeping in the window again. He hesitates for a moment at the side of Dean's bed, but there's nothing but comfort there. He slips under the covers and Dean brings him his medley of nighttime medicines before turning out the light and sliding in the other side.

Castiel is extremely aware of the space between them, of the small effort it would take to close it. Whatever it is that’s going on between them, whatever it might be called, has been exceedingly chaste so far. They’ve kissed a few times, they’ve established love between them and the interest in something romantic that they share. Other than this, nothing has really happened. Castiel has, so far, found it a relief. He’s not at all sure he’s ready for anything more, and the slow pace has been good for him.

At this moment, though, he wants to be close to Dean, but he wonders if it would be too forward. Slowly, he scoots under the covers until he’s close enough to touch Dean if he reaches out his hand.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“Yeah. Yes.” Castiel takes a deep breath, “But…”

“What?”

“Could you… hold me?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah of course.” Dean opens his arms and Castiel crawls into them. Into the comfort and warmth that he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sweet Peach Thyme Shortcakes](https://www.halfbakedharvest.com/sweet-peach-thyme-shortcakes/#bo-recipe)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> It might seem like Dean is callous in this chapter, but he just doesn't think of ghosts the same way he thinks of people. 
> 
> Also, I'm thinking of going back and re-naming all the chapters after food and/or desserts. So, you know, that might happen. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading, I love each and every one of you so much, and I hope this chapter wasn't too much of a bummer.  
> hugs,  
> Grace


	12. Birthday Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is it, this is the last chapter. It has been an absolute delight writing for you all, I always look forward to reading your comments every week and I would have let this story go on forever if it weren't for other commitments. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. 
> 
>  
> 
>  **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:**  
>  \- Four (Gabriel) Moves On  
> \- many feels  
> \- a brief allusion to past non-con (it's nothing much, just cas briefly thinking about something)

In Castiel’s fingers, the peanut brittle snaps, sending small chunks scattering to and fro. The sharp edges and crisp sound are a sensation unlike anything else he’s been able to find. He picks a bigger piece out of the small wicker basket and does it again. 

_ Crunch _

What a soothing sound. What a feeling. 

“Are you… gonna eat that?” Dean asks.

Castiel blinks, and finds himself very suddenly back behind the counter of Winchester Witchcraft Supply. For a moment, he’d been a million miles away.

“No.” He says, after some thought. He picks up another piece and breaks it as well. 

Dean watches him, smiling bemusedly. “It tastes pretty good too, you know.”

“I guess i’ll never find out.”

Dean reaches out and snatches the brittle from Castiel’s fingertips, popping it quickly into his mouth and humming happily.

“I was using that!” Castiel insists. 

“Well I’m using it better.”

Castiel gives him a look, which he studiously ignores. “It’s  _ my  _ brittle, you know.”

“I think it was for both of us.”

“Um, Gilda handed it to me, so…” He picks up a large chunk and snaps it in half, nerves soothed at the sound. 

Dean leans over and, suddenly, kisses him on the cheek.

“What was that for?” Castiel wonders.

“You’re cute.” Dean explains, “I mean, you’re always cute, but- I don’t know. I just-”

Castiel cuts him off with a swift kiss to the mouth, holding his hand like their lives depend on it. It’s something he’s trying to get used to, the kissing. The soft press of a welcomed mouth against his own, the feel of lips, the touch of a tongue. It’s a very different thing than any he’s experienced before, no fear to be felt but for the flutter of nervous butterflies in his stomach. 

It always makes him a little shaky, to be perfectly honest, there’s a flight response built into his soul when someone is so close. He tamps it down by reminding himself that he trusts Dean, so completely. 

Dean doesn’t move to deepen the kiss, he never does, he keeps his hands to himself and stays, more or less, still. He waits patiently until Castiel parts his lips in invitation, slides his hand up Dean’s side. The push and pull of a mutual kiss, that rising feeling in his stomach, goosebumps all over, like the rising of the tide. It’s a mutual agreement, that Castiel will set the pace. It’s an arrangement that works for both of them, as Dean never minds when Castiel directs him. 

Their kiss is short, as they’re in a place of business, but Castiel would like nothing more than to curl up on the couch with Dean and kiss him for hours. 

When they’ve parted, Dean leaves a hand over Castiel’s. His palm is warm and smooth, a calming weight. Castiel wouldn’t mind to always have Dean’s hand there on his own, an anchor to the world. What bad could ever happen when Dean’s fingers are intertwined with his own?

As if sensing his thoughts, Dean gives his hand a little squeeze. 

“You know,” He says, “Your birthday is coming up.”

Castiel blinks slowly. “What?”

“Your birthday. You know… you do know, don’t you?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, right.” Dean frowns, “You’ve definitely never celebrated your birthday, have you?”

“I… don’t think so.”

“Okay, well, normally what happens is that you get a cake and some presents, maybe a party.”

“A party?”

“Yeah, and presents.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. To sort of, celebrate that you were born. Because we’re happy you’re here.”

It makes some sense… sort of. Castiel  _ has  _ noticed that people like to celebrate things, especially when they don’t necessarily need celebrating. 

“Okay.”

“So, um, I was gonna ask if you wanted to have a party?”

This should not be a difficult question. It’s simple, requires only a yes or no answer, but it has Castiel stumped. Does he want a party? What does that even really mean? Does he want to be the center of attention? Generally not. 

Then again, he likes spending time with his friends. 

“Alright,” He says finally, “I would like to have a party.”

Dean beams, not even trying to hide his delight. “Cool, because I already have one basically planned out, I just need your approval on some things. Unless you want it to be a surprise party, in which case I won’t tell you.”

Castiel squints at him, “If I already know it’s happening, will it still be a surprise?”

“Good point, good point. In that case, i’ll just tell you everything I’m thinking.”

 

Dean is thinking big, as he is want to do, and has in mind something completely unexpected. Something that Castiel never would dreamt of. 

He's thinking  _ space _ .

 

“I don't know about this, Dean.”

“You’ll love it,” Dean insists, “I promise. And I rented the place out, so there won’t be any strangers.”

Castiel stops walking, pulling Dean to a halt on the sidewalk. 

“What?” Dean asks, turning to face him. He’s got a blueberry pie in the crook of his arm, and a quizzical look on his face.

“How much did that cost?”

Dean shrugs, giving a tug on the sleeve of Castiel’s sweater. “Not much.”

“Dean.”

“Cas, it’s your birthday.”

“You know how I feel about you spending money on me.”

Dean draws close to him, despite their being in the middle of the sidewalk, presses his lips to Castiel’s forehead.

“It’s your birthday,” He reiterates, “The first birthday you’ve ever celebrated, right?”

“Well, yes.”

“It’s special. I want it to… to  _ mean  _ something. I want you to remember it years from now.”

“I’ll remember it no matter what, as long as i’m with you.”

Dean huffs, grinning. “Okay, I mean, thanks. But also you’re going to love this, I promise. It’s worth it, to me, to see you happy.”

“I don’t want to-”

“You’re not a burden.” Dean cuts him off.

Castiel shuts his  mouth with an audible snap. Dean knows him too well, it seems. There’s always a part of him that feels, when anyone goes out of their way for him, like he’s a burden. Dean is always very quick to shut this down. 

“I love you.” Dean continues, turning to continue walking, tugging Castiel along, “We all love you. When you love someone, you want to make them happy. That’s not you being a burden.”

Castiel swallows, feeling suddenly very overwhelmed. He follows Dean, but slowly, finding himself needing to focus on every step he takes lest he trip. 

Dean slows with him, and winds and arm around Castiel’s back to keep him steady. He’s more than used to Castiel’s anxiety now, his moods and his panic attacks. He’s picked up tips from Pamela, from the internet, the doctor, and from Castiel himself. He’s constantly striving to be better, to make things easier for Castiel, to understand him better. He’s the most genuinely kind and patient person that Castiel has ever met, and sometimes it’s overwhelming. Sometimes, he wonders what he did to deserve Dean. Sometimes he thinks the first eighteen years of his life must have been something like an advance payment for this happiness, and sometimes it feels like it was worth it. 

“I love you too.” He says, feeling Dean’s arm tighten around him.

Dean beams at him, as he does every time Castiel says the words. I love you.  _ I love you _ . They mean so much, heavy with the weight of all his feelings and thoughts and thankfulness. 

The rest of their walk is quiet, as Castiel ponders and Dean navigates. Eventually, they come across a building that Castiel doesn’t recognize. The outside looks a little bit like the art museum he and Dean went to a few months ago, but it’s not the same place.

A guard lets them in the front, and when they enter the main room, Castiel loses his breath. 

The room is full of… space. Models of planets, projections of stars on the walls. He forgets why he’s here for a moment until he spots his friends standing by an enourmous model of Mars. They have a table set up with food on it, plenty of chairs, and a small pile of presants nearby. 

Jess spots them first, and she points and shouts, “Happy Birthday, Cas!”

The others turn too, and soon they’re all shouting. Castiel fights the urge to duck behind Dean, or try and run away. These are people who love him, and they’re here for him. 

Sam is with Jess, towering over everyone else but Gadreel, who seems to have already helped himself to some of the food. Anna is sitting down at the table, pregnant belly looking like it’s about to pop. She’s due any day, but she’s sitting there eyeing the cake like everything is normal, like she’s not about to introduce new life into the world. Donna and Jody came too, of course, as well as Charlie and Gilda, Meg, and Garth. Four is there too, hovering by the bowl of chips. 

When he’s close enough, they envelop him. Everyone is hugging him and touching him and, unexpectedly, he feels safe. Usually, this many people around him makes him anxious, but he feels okay. Everyone is very gentle, very soft. Anna is holding his hand and Dean’s palm in on his back, someone is kissing his head, and he feels cared for. He feels like… this is where he’s supposed to be. 

The cake in the middle of the table is a massive beast, dark blue icing with swirls of pink and purple to mimic the galaxy. The inside is strawberry, with little chunks of the fruit all around. 

The entire evening is incredibly surreal, in this large building devoid of the usual observatory-goers. They eat first, and then Castiel opens presents. 

From Gilda and Charlie he gets a rolling pin, a cake decorating kit, and an emersion blender. He gets books from Sam and clothes from Jess, more books from Jody and Donna. Meg gives him a surprisingly expensive looking knife set, while Garth’s gift is an Aloe Vera plant. 

Gadreel, unsurprisingly, hands him a bag full of several pounds of tomatoes, and Anna gives him an enormous painting she’s done of Windy. He's already received Dean's gift back at the house, a very pretty bracelet with little rose quartz and amethyst beads. It's already on his wrist.

This is the most gifts Castiel has ever received at once, and he’s left feeling overwhelmed once again. Of course, it doesn’t take much. 

After this they all take some time to explore the observatory, and he’s glad of the momentary respite. He can hear the others talking. The sounds of their distant voices anchor him, while the projections of stars on the walls take him far away. After some time, his left side begins to get cold, and he turns to find Four standing next to him. 

“Happy Birthday.” Says Four.

“Thanks.”

“... I’m sorry for wanting to leave.”

Castiel sighs, but shakes his head. “I don’t know what it’s like for you, and it’s selfish of me to want you to stay if you don’t want to.”

“You know I love you.”

“God, I just wish you weren’t dead.”

Four laughs, “Yeah, well, welcome to the club.”

“You sure you’re ready?”

“I’m sure. I want to see what’s next. Could be great, you know?”

“Yeah… could be.”

Four reaches out and touches the back of Castiel’s hand. It feels like an icy breeze, but Castiel leans into it. 

“You’ll be okay.” Says Four, “You have a lot of people who love you.”

“I know. I just- I think-” He has to stop and swallow.

“What?”

“I think about… if the police had just been a little bit quicker. If they had come just a little sooner, you could be here too. You could- you could be  _ living _ , and-” He has to stop agian, this time because he’s got tears rolling down his cheeks and knot in his throat. He can’t keep it together for even a single night. 

“I know.” Says Four, his icy arm moving to Castiel’s back, “Fuckin’ sucks. But wishing things were different isn’t going to change anything.”

“Ugh, when did you get so… introspective and calm?”

“Death does things to ya.”

“Everything sucks.”

“Nah,” Says Four, “Look around. Things are pretty good.”

Castiel doesn’t have to look around to know that Four is right. Things are  _ great _ . He’s so loved, so cared for. He’s warm and safe and full, but he can’t help wanting his brother back, can he? He knows it’s for the best that Four move on, but it still stings. He has a suspicion that it won’t ever really stop. 

“I’m glad I got to have you for a while longer, anyway.”

“Yeah, me too.”

 

In succession, they celebrate Anna’s birthday, Gadreel’s, and even Four’s. It’s probably too much cake to have in such a short span of time, but nobody really cares. They’re joyous, they’re  _ celebrating _ , and in a way they’re mourning too. Mourning their lost youths, and the rapidly approaching loss of Four. 

 

The day, when it dawns, is overcast. It should be, Castiel thinks, it suits his mood. 

They go to the Church of Avoth. Castiel and Dean, Anna, Gadreel, and Four. It’s just as it was before, still untouched. Castiel wonders if anyone will ever clean the place up, or if it will stay as a monument to the massacre of his siblings forever. Anna and Gadreel both balk at the door, but Four is already dead, and Castiel has been through this already. He’s seen the stains and the destruction. The air isn’t oppressive like it was last time, not since he and Dean cleaned the energy of the place. Still, it’s the site of the turning point in all their lives. Anna grips his arm so tightly that he thinks he might bruise. When they reach the sanctuary, she stops and buries her head in his back.

“I can’t do this.” She says. 

“Do you want to go home?”

She doesn’t answer for a long while, so long that he thinks she won’t answer at all. At long last, she takes a deep shuddering breath. “I want to be here.” She whispers.

“It’s all over.” Gadreel reminds her, coming up to put a hand on her shoulder. 

She presses a hand to her belly, closing her eyes. “They don’t like being here.” She says.

“We’ll be quick.” Castiel promises. 

In the middle of the room, Dean sets up crystals, lights some herbs on fire in a bowl. Castiel isn’t exactly sure what he’s doing, but he knows that Dean has been researching how to help Four move on for a while now, and he wouldn't be doing it if he didn’t think it would work. 

When he’s finished, he instructs them all to sit in a circle around the smouldering herbs. Castiel smells sage, but doesn’t recognize the other herbs. 

There’s a chant, and it’s not in english but as soon as they start he can feel the power raising. He can feel the air in the room thicken, the hair on his arms stands on end, and an invisible hand presses down on his chest. 

They go through the chant once, twice, and then Four takes a deep breath. 

“I can feel it.” He says, smiling, “I can feel the other side.”

Anna cuts off chanting to ask, “What does it feel like.”

“Peace.” Gabriel tells her, growing more transparent by the moment, “I love you. I love all of you.”

He’s gone. Just like that. One moment there, the next… nothing at all. 

The sudden sense of loss hits Castiel like a punch to the gut. He leans over and grips his knees to keep himself from retching on the floor, and his siblings look to be in similar conditions. Anna is crying and Gadreel just looks… lost.

Dean says nothing, but puts his arm around Castiel and kisses him on the cheek. They don’t stick around, it would accomplish nothing and no one wants to be there any longer than they need to. 

The walk back is subdued, Anna and Gadreel break off halfway to head back to Jody and Donna’s house, leaving Dean and Castiel to stroll alone. Dean takes Castiel’s hand in his, and this simple act does much to ease Castiel’s heart. 

“It’ll always be hard.” Dean says, giving Castiel’s hand a squeeze.

“But you’ll be here?”

“Yeah, I will.”

 

Pasta is in order. Something warm and filling, creamy and comforting. Penne goes into a pot of boiling water almost before he even realizes he’s cooking. He needs this, and his body knows. 

In a pan, he heats olive oil and adds shrimp and minced garlic. He loves the smell of garlic, can’t get enough of it, the freshness and bite of it never fail to please him. He sprinkles the shrimp with salt and sears them until they’re golden before taking them out of the pan and putting them aside. Sun dried tomatoes and more garlic go into the pan, to cook until the garlic’s fragrance begins to waft through the room, then he adds half and half and brings it to a boil. 

It’s astounding how the act of cooking can calm him so, can take his mind away from whatever is bothering him and transport him to a place where everything smells great and nothing is wrong. Maybe it’s because it gives him something to do with his hands, makes him think about the ingredients and the methods of cooking. He’s not sure, but he knows that he feels better somehow, and that’s all that matters. 

Shredded cheese goes into the boiling mixture, and then he immediately reduces the heat to let it simmer until the cheese melts away and the sauce begins to look creamy. Basil, red pepper flakes, and paprika go into the sauce, upping the fragrance by several notches. Salt is added slowly and then, finally, the shrimp goes back in. 

The smell of it draws Dean to the kitchen, and he leans on the doorframe, watching. 

“That’s creepy, you know.” Castiel tells him. 

“Is it?”

“Would like it if strange men watched you cook?”

“Hey, you know me!” Dean protests. 

“You’re still strange.”

“Right, as opposed to you? Mr. Normal?”

Castiel sticks his tongue out at Dean, who returns the gesture.

“Do you want some of my food or are you just going to be weird?”

Dean immediately straightens up. “I want food!” 

“Well, then, you have to be nice to me.”

“Absolutely.”

“And I get to pick what we watch tonight.”

“You could have done that anyway.”

“Alright.” Castiel says, ladling the pasta onto two plates and adding the sauce to each while Dean gets them iced tea to drink. 

They sit side by side, knees touching under the table, and they eat. It’s a simple act, again, but it does so much to ground Castiel. Just eating with Dean, talking with Dean, leaves him feeling cleaner and lighter than before. 

“I can’t believe you’re such a good cook.” Dean says, on his second helping of pasta, “What did I do to deserve you?”

“What?”

“You’re…” Dean looks at him and smiles, “You’re smart, you’re talented, you’re kind and cute  _ and  _ you can cook. I feel like i’m really dating  _ up _ , you know?”

“What? No. No, that’s-  _ you’re  _ the one who- who-” Castiel huffs, frustrated at his inability to articulate his thoughts, “ _ You’re better _ .”

“No way.” Says Dean.

“I’m not- I’m not smart.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Castiel shakes his head, and Dean leans over to cup his jaw. 

“Hey,” He says, “you’re smart. I swear. I’m fucking astounded all the time by how fast you pick up new things, how fast you catch on.  _ That’s  _ smart. You’re smart.”

“Oh.” Castiel closes his mouth and stares down at his food. Maybe he shouldn’t feel so shaken over it, but he does. No one thinks he’s  _ smart _ . Helpful? Sure. Kind? Absolutely. But smart? No one has ever thought he was  _ smart _ . 

He turns the idea over and over in his head, it bubbles and fizzes in his stomach. Smart. He thinks about it as they eat, as they clean up, as they sit down on the couch together to watch a documentary about sharks that Castiel has been eyeing. 

“You  _ really _ think i’m smart?” Castiel asks about a half hour into the movie. 

Dean looks at him, bewildered. “Yeah, Cas, I do. I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.”

He says it so simply that Castiel almost has no choice but to believe it. It’s not as if Dean is going to erase Castiel’s entire past with one phrase, but for a moment that’s exactly what he’s done. Dean thinks he’s smart, and how was Castiel to know that this would make him so happy, and so incredibly proud of himself?

He leans over, running on bubbles and a lifted heart, and kisses Dean on the mouth. 

Dean laughs and reaches up to card his fingers through Castiel’s hair. “What’d I do to deserve that?” He wonders.

“I love you.” Castiel tells him. 

“Well, yeah. I love you too. You don’t have to kiss me just because you love me.”

“I know. I want to.”

Mostly their kisses have been on the cheek, the forehead. More platonic than not, but for some exceptions. At this moment, though, Castiel wants to kiss Dean harder, deeper. So, he does. 

His hand is on Dean’s chest, his mouth on Dean’s too, and it hits him very suddenly that they’re  _ boyfriends _ . What a strange thought, to love and be loved by someone, simply because of who you are.

He migrates, slowly, until he’s on his knees. Until he’s gently pushing Dean backward and climbing into his lap. Dean lets himself be manhandled without protest, lets Castiel move him here, guide his hand there. He leans back lets himself be kissed. 

That’s not to say he’s not an active participant, because he is. He kisses Castiel back gently, guiding their tongues together with practiced skill. His thumb, on Castiel’s waist, rubs little circles. 

Castiel can feel Dean’s erection pressing against his leg, but no mention is made of it, and it doesn’t seem terribly important. 

“Cas,” Dean says, after a while, “Can I touch you?”

It takes Castiel a few seconds to catch on, because his brain has gone a little fuzzy and mostly he’s wondering why they aren't still kissing. When he does realize, he looks down and finds, to his surprise, that he’s hard as well. It’s not something that happens terribly often. 

“Um.” He says, “Okay.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want me to. I just- I’m just offering.”

“No, it’s- I think it’s okay.”

“Okay?”

Castiel nods. 

Dean’s hands go to the front of Castiel’s jeans, thumbs playing over the button. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” Dean says, looking him in the eye, “I’m serious. If you want me to stop- for any reason- i’ll stop.”

Castiel breathes a sigh of relief he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding. “I know.”

Dean's hands are careful and slow as they undo his button and zipper and reach into his pants. The touch of his fingers against the hot flesh has Castiel jolting, but not because he doesn't like it. 

He forces himself to stay still, stay calm, his fingers digging into the flesh of Dean’s shoulders. He keeps expecting the fear to come, the panic to set in, but it doesn’t. Dean pulls Castiel’s erection out of his pants and begins to fondle it, and Castiel feels fine. It doesn’t feel like it did before, when it was forced on him by people he hated and he had no choice, there’s a slight amount of anxiety, but it’s not what he was expecting. 

He leans forward and rests his head on Dean’s shoulder as the man works him toward completion with a gentle hand. 

“Relax.” Dean reminds him, free hand stroking down his side, “Just breathe. Let me take care of you.”

Castiel breathes, emotion surging into his throat, gratitude and affection and  _ happiness _ . He comes, and it’s never felt pure before but it does now. It feels like relief, it feels like love, and suddenly he just really wants a nap. 

Castiel slumps forward against Dean, confident that his weight is nothing to the man. Dean turns his head and kisses him on the cheek, the jaw, the lips. 

“You okay?”

“Yes.” Castiel assures him, “That was… that was amazing.”

Dean grins, nuzzling his nose into Castiel’s neck, “I mean- I think I did pretty good.”

“You did so good.”

“You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“‘M tired.” Castiel sighs. 

“Come on, let's get you cleaned up and we can go to bed.”

Castiel barely has the energy to stand, but he follows Dean to the bathroom doesn’t even mind when Dean takes a damp rag and cleans him off. 

He does notice, however, that he’s made a mess of Dean’s shirt. 

“I am  _ so  _ sorry!” He says, “Is it ruined?”

Dean shakes his head, laughing. “Don’t be sorry, it’s fine. If I was worried about it I wouldn’t have started it in the first place. It’s just a shirt.” 

“Are you sure?”

Dean gives him a look. “Yeah, I’m sure. Let’s go to bed.”

By an unspoken agreement, they both migrate to Dean’s bed. Castiel usually sleeps in his own, but he wants to be close to Dean tonight. They lay curled up in bed, clean and warm, and Castiel has never felt more content than he does in this moment. 

He can’t help but cast his thoughts toward the future for a moment, and he can admit that things look bright. There are dark spots, things that sadden him, yes. The fact that Four is gone, that he’ll never get to meet Anna’s children. The fact that he and Gadreel are the only ones out of all of their siblings that will meet the kids. There are more things too, but he doesn’t dwell on them. Mostly, things look good. Looking toward the future doesn’t leave him feeling sad, it leaves him feeling hopeful. Soon, Anna will have her babies, and who knows what they might become. Anna is flourishing, Gadreel is getting enough food and sleep, and Castiel is in love. 

Yes… things are looking up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to chat, or talk about the story or anything, come talk to me on my tumblr!
> 
>  
> 
> [Creamy Mozzarella Shrimp Pasta](http://juliasalbum.com/2017/04/creamy-mozzarella-shrimp-pasta/)  
> [Praying - Kesha](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-Dur3uXXCQ)
> 
> [Rainbow - Kesha](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sd5dcjXzuGk)  
>  
> 
> [Another Reblogable](https://deanlightful.tumblr.com/post/164222839465/the-unclean-dean-should-know-by-now-to-expect)

**Author's Note:**

> \- the other two rescued survivors are Anna and Gadreel.
> 
> come talk to me about it on [tumblr](https://deanlightful.tumblr.com/)  
> I also have a general writing tumblr that i'll be posting more stories on [, writerlydays](https://writerlydays.tumblr.com/).  
> [inspiration pinboard for this story](https://www.pinterest.com/theittybittys/the-unclean/)  
> reblogables for this story: [X](https://deanlightful.tumblr.com/post/161665223820/the-unclean-dean-should-know-by-now-to-expect-the), [X](https://deanlightful.tumblr.com/post/161665695130/the-unclean-dean-should-know-by-now-to-expect-the), [X](https://deanlightful.tumblr.com/post/161775735070/the-unclean-dean-should-know-by-now-to-expect-the), [X](https://deanlightful.tumblr.com/post/164222839465/the-unclean-dean-should-know-by-now-to-expect)
> 
> thank you so much for reading, I love you all to death!  
> Comments keep me alive and writing!  
> love,  
> Grace


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